"Jacopo is dead," said the Zouave; "a bullet shot him through the heart."
Monte-Cristo hurried with Coucou and Albert to the spot where Jacopo had fallen. Suddenly he struck his forehead.
"What has become of Medje?" he asked.
"Medje?" asked Albert.
"Yes, she brought us here, and—merciful Heaven! here she lies," the count exclaimed.
Medje was lying motionless on the ground, with a dagger wound in the shoulder.
"Poor Medje!" said Albert.
"Little father," whispered Medje when she had regained consciousness.
She stroked Albert's hand. Then her dark eyelashes closed over her eyes. Medje was dead.