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He opened his lips to say he knew not what, when his ear caught the voice of Manuel Mazaro, replying to the greeting of some of his comrades outside the front door. "He is comin'!" cried the old man. "Mague you'sev hide, Madjor; do not led 'im kedge you, Mon Dieu!" The Irishman smiled. "The little yellow wretch!" said he quietly, his blue eyes dancing. "I'm goin' to catch him."
She found water and a basin, wet her own handkerchief, and dropped to her knees beside his head; but the moment he felt the small feminine hands he stood up. She took him by the arm. "Asseyez-vous, Monsieu' pliz to give you'sev de pens to seet down, 'Sieu' Frowenfel'."
A certain hidden hearer instantly made up her mind to rush out between the two young men and be a heroine. "Non, non!" exclaimed M. D'Hemecourt excitedly. "Nod in de Café des Exilés nod now, Madjor. Go in dad door, hif you pliz, Madjor. You will heer 'im w'at he 'ave to say. Mague you'sev de troub'. Nod dad door diz one."
Go, hopen yo' do's an' stan juz as you har ub biffo dad crowd and sesso! My God! 'Sieu' Frowenfel', iv you cannod stan' ub by you'sev " She ceased suddenly with a wild look, as if another word would have broken the levees of her eyes, and in that instant Frowenfeld recovered the full stature of a man. "God bless you!" he cried. "I will do it!"
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