"Good God! good God!" stammered Buteau.
It was all over. A single second had settled it all; the irreparable had been accomplished. Lise, dazed at seeing her wish so quickly realised, stood watching her sister's severed dress as it reddened with a stream of blood. Had the blade penetrated deeply enough to cut the little one, that the blood flowed so plentifully? she wondered.
Old Fouan's pale face again peeped forth from behind the rick. He had seen everything, and was perfectly stupefied.
Françoise lay quite still, and Buteau, who had stepped up to her, dared not touch her. A gust of wind now darted over the field, and filled him with a wild terror.
"She is dead! In God's name, let us bolt!"
He seized hold of Lise's hand, and they flew along the deserted road as though they were possessed. The low, gloomy sky seemed as though it was about to fall down upon their heads, and behind them the sound of their galloping feet raised echoes which sounded as though a crowd of people were in hot pursuit of them. They both ran wildly on over the cropped and naked plain; Buteau, with his blouse swelling about him in the wind, and Lise, with her hair all loose and dishevelled, carrying her cap in her hand. And as they ran they both kept repeating the same words, panting like hunted animals:
"She is dead! In God's name, let us bolt!"
Their strides grew longer, and soon they could not articulate distinctly; still, as they fled wildly on, they gave vent to panting exclamations which kept time, as it were, with their bounds:
"Dead! good God! Dead! good God! Dead! good God!"