Simon hurried forward. "You are welcome, comrade," he exclaimed.
The man turned pale, and but for Simon's support, he would have fallen on the floor.
"Françoise, a chair!" cried the innkeeper.
The soldier had his head wrapped in a blue handkerchief, and drops of blood were upon his cheek. His uniform was in rags, and a linen bandage was wrapped around one leg.
The men looked on with terrified respect while Simon tried to make him drink a glass of wine, and signed to Jacques to take off the soldier's shoes, now covered with snow.
The soldier uttered a deep sigh of relief. He was a peasant of about forty, although his moustache was gray. His features bore the traces of suffering and privations.
"Some brandy!" he gasped.
Little Francinette carried the glass to him. He drank it, looking the while at the child with admiration and sad envy. Then taking her on his knee, he looked around him at the honest faces, and said:
"My name is Michel—Michel Charmoze. There are thirty of us down on the road, all wounded, in a big wagon. The horses have fallen, one is dead, and we have come for help."
The woodcutters looked from one to the other in amazement.