He jumped up in
a moment and laughed at Marthe's terror; meantime a farm-servant caught
the nag and brought him back to his work.
But when Edouard went to put his hand on the saddle, he found it would
not obey him. "Wait a minute," said he; "my arm is benumbed."
"Let me see!" said the farmer, and examined the limb himself; "benumbed?
yes; and no wonder. Jacques, get on the brute and ride for the surgeon."
"Are you mad, uncle?" cried Edouard. "I can't spare my horse, and I want
no surgeon; it will be well directly."
"It will be worse before it is better."
"I don't know what you mean, uncle; it is only numbed, ah! it hurts when
I rub it."
"It is worse than numbed, boy; it is broken."
"Broken? nonsense:" and he looked at it in piteous bewilderment: "how
can it be broken? it does not hurt except when I touch it."
"It WILL hurt: I know all about it. I broke mine fifteen years ago: fell
off a haystack."
"Oh, how unfortunate I am!" cried Edouard, piteously. "But I will go to
Beaurepaire all the same. I can have the thing mended there, as well as
here.
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