Suddenly a wild hope filled her heart. Leaning over her husband’s prostrate form, she pressed her ear against his breast. “He still lives!” she cried. “He lives!” Realizing that her hope was not in vain, her tears ceased to well up in her swollen eyes. “Help me,” she commanded, as she tried to lift the body in her arms. Several in the crowd came forward to assist her. Her emotion nearly convinced them of her innocence, and only one among them, Andoche, intuitively felt that she was guilty, and yet sincere in her grief. A mattress was brought from the house and the gamekeeper was carefully placed upon it. “You, Lucien,” said Catherine, to a little boy of fifteen who was standing near, “you must run to Quarré and bring Monsieur Morris, the doctor, at once.” When he was removed within, Catherine laved Savin’s wounds. A single discharge of lead had entered the chest on the left side a little below the heart. Profuse bleeding had rendered him insensible, but his heart was still beating. “He is not dead! No, no! He breathes!” Catherine kept repeating. “Listen, George, don’t you hear him breathe?” George was a young student of Trinquelin who possessed no little intelligence. “Yes, he is living,” he declared. So great was her joy at this assurance that all now felt fully convinced of her innocence. Meanwhile, Andoche, who alone felt undeceived, left the others, determined to follow the trail of blood which indicated the way the wounded man had taken. This trail led him to a little crossway where all signs ceased. At the right a tuft of high shoots had two or three broken branches, and the leaves were scattered. This, then, had been the scene of the assassination. The murderer had posted himself behind the accusing shrubbery and had fired at short range. Little Lucien returned with the doctor, who at a moment’s notice had mounted his horse, anxious to answer so extraordinary a summons. Already the intelligence had spread with that rapidity so characteristic of bad news, and from Quarré to Trinquelin the matter was being discussed. It was now broad daylight. Just behind the doctor was observed approaching the Chief of Police and one of his subordinates. A great commotion now prevailed. Since the day of the great stampede no such crowd had collected within a radius of twenty miles. From St. Benoit, from Trinquelin, Bordichon, and all the neighboring villages, people had assembled. When Bruno heard the startling news he entered his home completely prostrated. “Poor Catherine! Poor little woman!” he cried, in his grief. He did not doubt that she was the cause of Savin’s death, and he was utterly wretched in the consciousness that his love for her neither increased nor diminished with this discovery. From all sides rose one cry. All were unanimous in their decision: “Firmin is the guilty man.” When the doctor examined Savin, all looked anxiously for his verdict. At last it came: