The darkness through which he hurried could not hide it from his eyes.

Thus had Tissot begun, flying out at them, fleeing from them, a thing of mingled fury and weakness.

He knew how they had regarded Tissot.

So they now regarded him.
And the girl?
What shame lay on his manhood who had abandoned her, who had left her to be their sport! His rage boiled over as he thought of her, and with the rain-laden wind buffeting his brow he halted and made as if he would return.

But to what end if she would not have his aid, to what end if she would not suffer him?
With a furious gesture, he hurried on afresh, only to be arrested, by-and-by, at the corner of the ramparts near the Bourg du Four, by a dreadful thought.