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beings. Marius cried out with a start:—
‘You are wounded! Wait, I will carry you into the room!
They will attend to you there. Is it serious? How must I take
hold of you in order not to hurt you? Where do you suffer?
Help! My God! But why did you come hither?’
And he tried to pass his arm under her, in order to raise
her.
She uttered a feeble cry.
‘Have I hurt you?’ asked Marius.
‘A little.’
‘But I only touched your hand.’
She raised her hand to Marius, and in the middle of that
hand Marius saw a black hole.
‘What is the matter with your hand?’ said he.
‘It is pierced.’
‘Pierced?’
‘ Ye s .’
‘What with?’
‘A bullet.’
‘How?’
‘Did you see a gun aimed at you?’
‘Yes, and a hand stopping it.’
‘It was mine.’
Marius was seized with a shudder.
‘What madness! Poor child! But so much the better, if
that is all, it is nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will
dress your wound; one does not die of a pierced hand.’
She murmured:—
‘The bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through