But his eyes were on the Frenchman, and as Valade moved up the other road a little way, the lad shifted alertly, and swiftly closed the distance to the intersection. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. "Do not shed more blood," cried the carpenter. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle.
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