For three days he had seen none but her; and at this very moment, amidst the growing darkness, he still saw her.
Rengade turned towards the officer, who had failed to find among the soldiers the requisite men for an execution.
"This villain put my eye out," he said, pointing to Silvere.

"Hand him over to me.

It's as good as done for you." The officer did not reply in words, but withdrew with an air of indifference, making a vague gesture.

The gendarme understood that the man was surrendered to him.
"Come, get up!" he resumed, as he shook him.
Silvere, like all the other prisoners, had a companion attached to him.
He was fastened by the arm to a peasant of Poujols named Mourgue, a man about fifty, who had been brutified by the scorching sun and the hard labour of tilling the ground.

Crooked-backed already, his hands hardened, his face coarse and heavy, he blinked his eyes in a stupid manner, with the stubborn, distrustful expression of an animal subject to the lash.