Then he turned his face back to the ground and slept again.
Some hours later Bonaparte came toward the fuel-house with a lump of bread in his hand.

He opened the door and peered in; then entered, and touched the fellow with his boot.

Seeing that he breathed heavily, though he did not rouse, Bonaparte threw the bread down on the ground.
He was alive, that was one thing.

He bent over him, and carefully scratched open one of the cuts with the nail of his forefinger, examining with much interest his last night's work.

He would have to count his sheep himself that day; the boy was literally cut up.