“Unhappy boy!” cried Dagobert, seizing his son by the arm; “could you not keep that from me—­rather than expose me to become a traitor and a coward?” And the soldier shuddered, as he repeated:  “The galleys!”—­and, bending down his head, remained mute, pensive, withered, as it were, by those blasting words.

“Yes, to enter an inhabited place by night, in such a manner, is what the law calls burglary, and punishes with the galleys,” cried Agricola, at once grieved and rejoicing at his father’s depression of mind—­“yes, father, the galleys, if you are taken in the act; and there are ten chances to one that you would be so.  Mother Bunch has told you, the convent is guarded.  This morning, had you attempted to carry off the two young ladies in broad daylight, you would have been arrested; but, at least, the attempt would have been an open one, with a character of honest audacity about it, that hereafter might have procured your acquittal.  But to enter by night, and by scaling the walls—­I tell you, the galleys would be the consequence.  Now, father, decide.  Whatever you do, I will do also—­for you shall not go alone.  Say but the word, and I will forge the hook for you—­I have here hammer and pincers—­and in an hour we will set out.”

A profound silence followed these words—­a silence that was only interrupted by the stifled sobs of Frances, who muttered to herself in despair:  “Alas! this is the consequence of listening to Abbe Dubois!”

It was in vain that Mother Bunch tried to console Frances.  She was herself alarmed, for the soldier was capable of braving even infamy, and Agricola had determined to share the perils of his father.

In spite of his energetic and resolute character, Dagobert remained for some time in a kind of stupor.  According to his military habits, he had looked at this nocturnal enterprise only as a ruse de guerre, authorized by his good cause, and by the inexorable fatality of his position; but the words of his son brought him back to the fearful reality, and left him the choice of a terrible alternative—­either to betray the confidence of Marshal Simon, and set at naught the last wishes of the mother of the orphan—­or else to expose himself, and above all his son, to lasting disgrace—­without even the certainty of delivering the orphans after all.

Drying her eyes, bathed in tears, Frances exclaimed, as if by a sudden inspiration:  “Dear me!  I have just thought of it.  There is perhaps a way of getting these dear children from the convent without violence.”

“How so, mother?” said Agricola, hastily.

“It is Abbe Dubois, who had them conveyed thither; but Gabriel supposes, that he probably acted by the advice of M. Rodin.

“And if that were so, mother, it would be in vain to apply to M. Rodin.  We should get nothing from him.”

“Not from him—­but perhaps from that powerful abbe, who is Gabriel’s superior, and has always patronized him since his first entrance at the seminary.”