The crowd closed
in as near as was safe, while the confusion and the shouts of the
people and the carters increased every minute.
The coachman of the private carriage threw the reins to the
footman and sprang down to go to the horses' heads.
"You have run over a Zouave!" some one shouted from the crowd.
"Meno male! Thank goodness it was not one of us!" exclaimed
another voice.
"Where is he? Get him out, some of you!" cried the coachman as he
seized the reins close to the bit.
By this time a couple of stout gendarmes and two or three soldiers
of the Antibes legion had made their way to the front and were
dragging away the fallen cab-horse. A tall, thin, elderly
gentleman, of a somewhat sour countenance, descended from the
carriage and stooped over the injured soldier.
"It is only a Zouave, Excellency," said the coachman, with a sort
of sigh of relief.
The tall gentleman lifted Gouache's head a little so that the
light from the carriage-lamp fell upon his face. He was quite
insensible, and there was blood upon his pale forehead and white
cheeks. One of the gendarmes came forward.
"We will take care of him, Signore," he said, touching his three-
cornered hat. "But I must beg to know your revered name," he
added, in the stock Italian phrase.
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