“Yes.”

“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:⁠—