” “Blood of my heart!” whispered Capes, holding her close to him. Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just perceive the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the darkness, and rendered indistinctly visible by the many lights that twinkled from the windows of the lofty houses. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door.
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