"Run, Monsieur, run!" she cried, trying to drag him; but Monsieur
Dutchman would not.
"_Run,_ Monsieur! Oh, my God! it is 'Sieur"--
"_That_ for yesterday!" cried the manager, striking fiercely with his
cane. Kristian Koppig's fist rolled him in the dirt.
"_That_ for 'Tite Poulette!" cried another man dealing the Dutchman a
terrible blow from behind.
"And _that_ for me!" hissed a third, thrusting at him with something
bright.
"_That_ for yesterday!" screamed the manager, bounding like a tiger;
"That!" "THAT!" "Ha!"
Then Kristian Koppig knew that he was stabbed.
"That!" and "That!" and "That!" and the poor Dutchman struck wildly here
and there, grasped the air, shut his eyes, staggered, reeled, fell, rose
half up, fell again for good, and they were kicking him and jumping on
him. All at once they scampered. Zalli had found the night-watch.
"Buz-z-z-z!" went a rattle. "Buz-z-z-z!" went another.
"Pick him up."
"Is he alive?"
"Can't tell; hold him steady; lead the way, misses."
"He's bleeding all over my breeches.
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