It was Louis. His eyes were staring, his hair
waved, his cheeks were flabby with dismay, He breathed as if he
had been running.
'What is it?' Mademoiselle cried, while he was still some way
off. 'Speak, man. My sister? Is she--'
'Clon,' he gasped.
The name changed her to stone.
'Clon? What of him?' she muttered.
'In the village!' Louis panted, his tongue stuttering with
terror. 'They are flogging him. They are killing him! To make
him tell!'
Mademoiselle grasped the sundial and leant against it, her face
colourless; and, for an instant, I thought that she was fainting.
'Tell?' I said mechanically. 'But he cannot tell. He is dumb,
man.'
'They will make him guide them,' Louis groaned, covering his ears
with his shaking hands, his face the colour of paper. 'And his
cries! Oh, Monsieur, go, go!' he continued, in a thrilling
tone. 'Save him. All through tie wood I heard his cries. It was
horrible! horrible!'
Mademoiselle uttered a moan of pain; and I turned to support her,
thinking each second to see her fall. But with a sudden
movement she straightened herself, and, quickly slipping by me,
with eyes that seemed to see nothing, she set off swiftly down
the walk towards the meadow gate.
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