Michel staggered back, his hand pressed to his left side.
His seconds hastened toward him, seized him under the arms, and tried to raise him.
"It is useless," he said. "It was well aimed!"
And, turning to Varhely, he cried, in a voice which he strove to render firm:
"Remember your promise!"
They opened his coat. The ball had entered his breast just above the heart.
They seated him upon the grass, with his back against a tree.
He remained there, with fixed eyes, gazing, perhaps, into the infinite, which was now close at hand.
His lips murmured inarticulate names, confused words: "Pardon— punishment—Marsa—"
As Yanski Varhely, with his two seconds, again passed the straw-workers, the girls saluted them with: