The baron was lying upon the ground, his head supported on Mme.
d'Escorval's knee.
His face was not disfigured; but he was pale as death itself, and his
eyes were closed.
At intervals a convulsive shudder shook his frame, and a stream of blood
gushed from his mouth. His clothing was hacked--literally hacked
in pieces; and it was easy to see that his body had sustained many
frightful wounds.
Kneeling beside the unconscious man, Abbe Midon, with admirable
dexterity, was stanching the blood and applying bandages which had been
torn from the linen of those present.
Maurice and one of the officers were assisting him. "Ah! if I had my
hands on the scoundrel who cut the rope," cried the corporal, in a
passion of indignation; "but patience. I shall have him yet."
"Do you know who it was?"
"Only too well!"
He said no more. The abbe had done all it was possible to do, and he now
lifted the wounded man a little higher on Mme. d'Escorval's knee.
This change of position elicited a moan that betrayed the unfortunate
baron's intense sufferings.
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