"There she is! . . . Bérangère! Are you hurt?"
I leapt towards him. Bérangère lay outstretched in a tangle of leaves and herbage.
She was so pale that I had not a doubt but that she was dead; and I felt very clearly that I should not be able to survive her. I even completed my thought by saying, aloud:
"I will avenge her first. The murderer shall die by my hand, I swear it."
But the count, after a hurried inspection, declared.
"She's not dead, she's breathing."
And I saw her open her eyes.
I fell on my knees besides her and, lifting her fair and sorrow-stricken face in my hands, asked her:
"Where are you hurt, Bérangère? Tell me, darling."
"I'm not hurt," she whispered. "It's the exertion, the excitement."