“M’sieur le Capitaine!” he cried, my hand in both of his, “I thought you were dead.”

“And so I have been—­dead as a cat drowned in a well, that turns up again as lively as ever.  Any news of the baroness and the young ladies?”

“A letter,” said he.  “Come, get off your horse.  I shall read to you the letter.”

“Tell me—­how were they taken?”

I was leading my horse, and we were walking through the deep grove.

“Eh bien, I am not able to tell,” said he, shaking his head soberly.  “You remember that morning—­well, I have twenty men there for two days.  They are armed, they surround the Hermitage, they keep a good watch.  The wasp he is very troublesome, but they see no soldier.  They stay, they burn the smudge.  By and by I think there is nothing to fear, and I bring them home, but I leave three men.  The baroness and the two girls and their servants they stay awhile to pack the trunk.  They are coming to the chateau.  It is in the evening; the coach is at the door; the servants have started.  Suddenly—­the British!  I do not know how many.  They come out of the woods like a lightning, and bang! bang! bang! they have killed my men.  They take the baroness and the Misses de Lambert, and they drive away with them.  The servants they hear the shots, they return, they come, and they tell us.  We follow.  We find the coach; it is in the road, by the north trail.  Dieu! they are all gone!  We travel to the river, but—­” here he lifted his shoulders and shook his head dolefully—­“we could do nothing.”

“The general may let me go after them with a force of cavalry,” I said.  “I want you to come with me and talk to him.”

“No, no, my capitaine!” said he; “it would not be wise.  We must wait.  We do not know where they are.  I have friends in Canada; they are doing their best, and when we hear from them—­eh bien, we shall know what is necessary.”

I told him how I had met them that night in Canada, and what came of it.

“They are a cruel people, the English,” said he.  “I am afraid to find them will be a matter of great difficulty.”

“But the letter—­”

“Ah, the letter,” he interrupted, feeling in his pocket.  “The letter is not much.  It is from Tiptoes—­from Louison.  It was mailed this side of the river at Morristown.  You shall see; they do not know where they are.”

He handed me the letter.  I read it with an eagerness I could not conceal.  It went as follows:—­

“My dear count:  If this letter reaches you, it will, I hope, relieve your anxiety.  We are alive and well, but where?  I am sure I have no better idea than if I were a baby just born.  We came here with our eyes covered after a long ride from the river, which we crossed in the night.  I think it must have taken us three days to come here.  We are shut up in a big house with high walls and trees and gardens around it—­a