I did not understand a word, but I led him towards the fatal spot; and there--a sight never to be forgotten--Edmee was lying on the ground rigid and bathed in blood. Her mare was quietly grazing a few yards away. Patience was standing by her side with his arms crossed on his breast, his face livid, and his heart so full that he was unable to answer a word to the abbe’s cries and sobs. For myself, I could not understand what was taking place. I fancy that my brain, already bewildered by my previous emotions, must have been completely paralyzed. I sat down on the ground by Edmee’s side. She had been shot in the breast in two places. I gazed on her lifeless eyes in a state of absolute stupor. “Take away that creature,” said Patience to the abbe, casting a look of contempt on me. “His perverse nature is what it always was.” “Edmee, Edmee!” cried the abbe, throwing himself upon the grass and endeavouring to stanch the blood with his handkerchief. “Dead, dead!” said Patience. “And there is the murderer! She said so as she gave up her pure soul to God; and Patience will avenge her! It is very hard; but it must be so! It is God’s will, since I alone was here to learn the truth.” “Horrible, horrible!” exclaimed the abbe. I heard the sound of this last word, and with a smile I repeated it like an echo. Some huntsmen now appeared. Edmee was carried away. I believe that I caught sight of her father walking without help. However, I should not dare to affirm that this was not a mere extravagant vision (for I had no definite consciousness of anything, and these awful moments have left in my mind nothing but vague memories, as of a dream), had I not been assured that the chevalier got out of the carriage without any help, walked about, and acted with as much presence of mind as a young man. On the following day he fell into a state of absolute dotage and insensibility, and never rose from his arm-chair again. But what happened to myself? I do not know. When I recovered my reason, I found that I was in another part of the forest near a little waterfall, to the murmur of which I was listening mechanically with a sort of vague delight. Blaireau was asleep at my feet, while his master, leaning against a tree, was watching me attentively. The setting sun was sending shafts of ruddy gold between the slender stems of the young ash-trees; the wild flowers seemed to be smiling at me; and birds were warbling sweet melodies. It was one of the most beautiful days of the year. “What a gorgeous evening!” I said to Marcasse. “This spot is as beautiful as an American forest. Well, old friend, what are you doing there? You ought to have awakened me sooner. I have had such hideous dreams.” Marcasse came and knelt down beside me; two streams of tears were running down his withered, sallow cheeks. On his face, usually so impassive, there was an ineffable expression of pity and sorrow and affection.