We distinctly saw the form of a man running away. Instinctively we
fired our revolvers in his direction. He was not more than ten
paces in front of us; he staggered and we thought he was going to
fall. We had sprung out of the window, but the man dashed off with
renewed vigour. I was in my socks, and the American was barefooted.
There being no hope of overtaking him, we fired our last cartridges
at him. But he still kept on running, going along the right side
of the court towards the end of the right wing of the chateau, which
had no other outlet than the door of the little chamber occupied by
the forest-keeper. The man, though he was evidently wounded by our
bullets, was now twenty yards ahead of us. Suddenly, behind us,
and above our heads, a window in the gallery opened and we heard
the voice of Rouletabille crying out desperately:
"Fire, Bernier!--Fire!"
At that moment the clear moonlight night was further lit by a broad
flash. By its light we saw Daddy Bernier with his gun on the
threshold of the donjon door.
He had taken good aim.
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