"Has she been shot?" asked Gethryn.

"Crushed, maybe."

"Poor little thing, look at her roll of music!" said Gethryn, wiping
a few drops of blood from her pallid face, and glancing
compassionately at the helpless, dust-covered figure.

"I'm afraid it's no use -- "

"Give her some more whiskey, quick!" interrupted the stranger.

Gethryn tremblingly poured a few more drops between the parted lips. A
faint color came into her temples. She moved, shivered from head to
foot, and then, with a half-choked sob, opened her eyes.

"Mon Dieu, comme je souffre!"

"Where do you suffer?" said Gethryn gently.

"The arm; I think it is broken."

Gethryn stood up and looked about for help. The Place was nearly
deserted. The blue-jacketed hussars were still standing over by the
Avenue, and an occasional heavy, red-faced cuirassier walked his
sweating horse slowly up and down the square. A few policemen lounged
against the river wall, chatting with the sentries, and far down the
dusty Rue Royale, the cannon winked and blinked before the Church of
the Madeleine.