Drops of sweat stood on my forehead. I felt my pockets to see if I had
nothing on me which I could use as a weapon, but I had not even a knife.
I looked at my dog; he was lying flat at the foot of the tree, and
appeared to be a prey to the most abject terror. The prisoner continued
his supplications, and the assassins their threats and mockery. I
climbed quietly down out of the fig tree, intending to fetch my pistols.
My dog followed me with his eyes, which seemed to be the only living
things about him. Just as my foot touched the ground a double report
rang out, and my dog gave a plaintive and prolonged howl. Feeling that
all was over, and that no weapons could be of any use, I climbed up again
into my perch and looked out. The poor wretch was lying face downwards
writhing in his blood; the assassins were reloading their muskets as they
walked away.

Being anxious to see if it was too late to help the man whom I had not
been able to save, I went out into the street and bent over him. He was
bloody, disfigured, dying, but was yet alive, uttering dismal groans. I
tried to lift him up, but soon saw that the wounds which he had received
from bullets fired at close range were both mortal, one being in the
head, and the other in the loins. Just then a patrol, of the National
Guard turned round the corner of the street. This, instead of being a
relief, awoke me to a sense of my danger, and feeling I could do nothing
for the wounded man, for the death rattle had already begun, I entered my
house, half shut the door, and listened.

"Qui vive?" asked the corporal.

"Idiot!" said someone else, "to ask 'Qui vive?' of a dead man!"

"He is not dead," said a third voice; "listen to him singing"; and indeed