"Hide the cross." He moved towards the door.

Rosalie saw his purpose, and ran out ahead of him and down the stairs to where the tailor lay prone on his face, one hand still holding the pincers.

The little iron cross lay in a dark corner.

Stooping, she lifted up the tailor's head, then felt his heart.
"He is not dead," she cried.

"Quick, Margot, some water," she added, to the whimpering woman.