Feeling that all was over, and that no weapons could be of any use, I climbed up again into my perch and looked out.

The poor wretch was lying face downwards writhing in his blood; the assassins were reloading their muskets as they walked away.
Being anxious to see if it was too late to help the man whom I had not been able to save, I went out into the street and bent over him.

He was bloody, disfigured, dying, but was yet alive, uttering dismal groans.

I tried to lift him up, but soon saw that the wounds which he had received from bullets fired at close range were both mortal, one being in the head, and the other in the loins.

Just then a patrol, of the National Guard turned round the corner of the street.