"Here I am! Goodness! what a number of things one ought to know in order to roam the wilds; I never should have thought it." "Don't talk, for God's sake! pay attention to your feet. One moment! Stop where you are; don't move. Here's a branch you can't get by; I'll cut it." Just as he stooped to do as he said, the count heard a smothered cry behind him and the fall of a body into the water. He looked back. Petit-Pierre had disappeared. Without losing a second, Bonneville dropped into the same place; and his luck served him well, for going to the bottom of the river, which was not more than eight feet deep at this place, his hand came in contact with Petit-Pierre's leg. He seized it, trembling with emotion, and paying no heed to the uncomfortable position in which he held the body he struck out for the bank of the stream, which was, happily, as narrow as it was deep. Petit-Pierre made no movement. Bonneville took him in his arms and laid him on the dry leaves, calling, entreating, even shaking him. Petit-Pierre continued silent and motionless. The count tore his hair in his anguish. "Oh, it is my fault! my fault!" he cried. "O God, you have punished my pride! I counted too much on myself; I thought I could save her. Oh, my life,--take my life, God! for one sigh, one breath--" The cool night air did more to bring Petit-Pierre to life than all Bonneville's lamentations; at the end of a few minutes he opened his eyes and sneezed. Bonneville, who, in his paroxysm of grief, swore not to survive the being whose death he thought he had caused, gave a cry of joy and fell on his knees by Petit-Pierre, who was now sufficiently recovered to understand his last words. "Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre, "you didn't say 'God bless you!' when I sneezed, and now I shall have a cold in my head." "Living! living! living!" cried Bonneville, as exuberant in his joy as he was in his grief. "Yes, living enough, thanks to you. If you were any other than you are, I would swear to you never to forget it." "You are soaked!" "Yes, my shoes especially, Bonneville. The water keeps running down, running down in a most disagreeable manner." "And no fire! no means to make one!" "Pooh! we shall get warm in walking. I speak in the plural, for you must be as wet as I am; in fact, it's your third bath,--one was of mud." "Oh, don't think of me! Can you walk?" "I believe so, as soon as I empty my shoes." Bonneville helped Petit-Pierre to get rid of the water which filled her shoes. Then he took off his own thick jacket, and having wrung the water from it, he put it over her shoulders, saying:-- "Now for Benaste, and fast, too!" "Ha! Bonneville," exclaimed Petit-Pierre; "a fine gain we have made by trying to avoid that camp-fire which would be everything to us just now!" "We can't go back and deliver ourselves up," said Bonneville, with a look of despair.