The coachman of the private carriage threw the reins to the footman and sprang down to go to the horses’ heads.

“You have run over a Zouave!” some one shouted from the crowd.

“Meno male!  Thank goodness it was not one of us!” exclaimed another voice.

“Where is he?  Get him out, some of you!” cried the coachman as he seized the reins close to the bit.

By this time a couple of stout gendarmes and two or three soldiers of the Antibes legion had made their way to the front and were dragging away the fallen cab-horse.  A tall, thin, elderly gentleman, of a somewhat sour countenance, descended from the carriage and stooped over the injured soldier.

“It is only a Zouave, Excellency,” said the coachman, with a sort of sigh of relief.

The tall gentleman lifted Gouache’s head a little so that the light from the carriage-lamp fell upon his face.  He was quite insensible, and there was blood upon his pale forehead and white cheeks.  One of the gendarmes came forward.

“We will take care of him, Signore,” he said, touching his three-cornered hat.  “But I must beg to know your revered name,” he added, in the stock Italian phrase.  “Capira—­I am very sorry—­but they say your horses—­”

“Put him into my carriage,” answered the elderly gentleman shortly.  “I am the Principe Montevarchi.”

“But, Excellency—­the Signorina—–­” protested the coachman.  The prince paid no attention to the objection and helped the gendarme to deposit Anastase in the interior of the vehicle.  Then he gave the man a silver scudo.

“Send some one to the Serristori barracks to say that a Zouave has been hurt and is at my house,” he said.  Therewith he entered the carriage and ordered the coachman to drive home.

“In heaven’s name, what has happened, papa?” asked a young voice in the darkness, tremulous with excitement.

“My dear child, there has been an accident in the street, and this young man has been wounded, or killed—­”

“Killed!  A dead man in the carriage!” cried the young girl in some terror, and shrinking away into the corner.

“You should really control your nerves, Faustina,” replied her father in austere tones.  “If the young man is dead, it is the will of Heaven.  If he is alive we shall soon find it out.  Meanwhile I must beg you to be calm—­to be calm, do you understand?”

Donna Faustina Montevarchi made no answer to this parental injunction, but withdrew as far as she could into the corner of the back seat, while her father supported the inanimate body of the Zouave as the carriage swung over the uneven pavement.  In a few minutes they rolled beneath a deep arch and stopped at the foot of a broad marble staircase.

“Bring him upstairs carefully, and send for a surgeon,” said the prince to the men who came forward.  Then he offered his arm to his daughter to ascend the steps, as though nothing had happened, and without bestowing another look on the injured soldier.