This time, completely worn out, leaning against the table, the strong, energetic man felt himself giving way.  His face was burning, yet bathed in a cold sweat; his knees trembled under him.  It is a common saying, that drowning men will catch at straws; and so it is with the despair that still clings to some shred of hope.  Catching at a last chance—­absurd, insane, impossible—­he turned abruptly towards the orphans, and said to them, without considering the alteration in his voice and features:  “I did not give them to you—­to keep for me?—­speak?”

Instead of answering, Rose and Blanche, terrified at his paleness and the expression of his countenance, uttered a cry.  “Good heavens! what is the matter with you?” murmured Rose.

“Have you got them—­yes, or no?” cried in a voice of thunder the unfortunate, distracted man.  “If you have not—­I’ll take the first knife I meet with, and stick it into my body!”

“Alas!  You are so good:  pardon us if we have done anything to afflict you!  You love us so much, you would not do us any harm.”  The orphans began to weep, as they stretched forth their hands in supplication towards the soldier.

He looked at them with haggard eye, without even seeing them; till, as the delusion passed away, the reality presented itself to his mind with all its terrible consequences.  Then he clasped his hands together, fell on his knees before the bed of the orphans, leaned his forehead upon it, and amid his convulsive sobs—­for the man of iron sobbed like a child—­these broken words were audible:  “Forgive me—­forgive!—­I do not know how it can be!—­Oh! what a misfortune!—­what a misfortune!—­Forgive me!”

At this outbreak of grief, the cause of which they understood not, but which in such a man was heart-rending, the two sisters wound their arms about his old gray head, and exclaimed amid their tears:  “Look at us!  Only tell us what is the matter with you?—­Is it our fault?”

At this instant, the noise of footsteps resounded from the stairs, mingled with the barking of Spoil-sport, who had remained outside the door.  The nearer the steps approached, the more furious became the barking; it was no doubt accompanied with hostile demonstrations, for the host was heard to cry out in an angry tone:  “Hollo! you there!  Call off your dog, or speak to him.  It is Mr. Burgomaster who is coming up.”

“Dagobert—­do you hear?—­it is the burgomaster,” said Rose.

“They are coming upstairs—­a number of people,” resumed Blanche.

The word burgomaster recalled whatever had happened to the mind of Dagobert, and completed, so to express it, the picture of his terrible position.  His horse was dead, he had neither papers nor money, and a day, a single day’s detention, might defeat the last hope of the sisters, and render useless this long and toilsome journey.