Tellmarch examined the other, who was a peasant woman. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her face discolored; but there were no wounds in her head. Her dress, undoubtedly worn to shreds by long marches, was rent by her fall, exposing her bosom. Tellmarch pushed it still further aside, and discovered on her shoulder a round wound made by a ball; the shoulder-blade was broken. He gazed upon her livid breast.
"A nursing mother," he murmured.
He touched her. She was not cold.
The broken bone and the wound in the shoulder were her only injuries. He placed his hand on her breast, and felt a faint throb. She was not dead.
Tellmarch raised himself, and cried out in a terrible voice,—
"Is there no one here?"
"Is that you, Caimand?" replied a voice, so low that it could scarcely be heard.
At the same time a head emerged from a hole in the ruin, and the next moment a second one peered forth from another aperture.
These were the sole survivors,—two peasants who had managed to hide themselves, and who now, reassured by the familiar voice of the Caimand, crept out of the hiding-places where they had been crouching.
They approached Tellmarch, still trembling violently.