This circumstance brought the gendarmes to a dead halt.

Four rash hussars ventured in the field, but they and their beasts were soon rolling between hillocks.

Jumping from ridge to ridge, Gaston soon reached a large field, freshly ploughed, and planted with young chestnuts.

As his chances of escape increased, the excitement grew more intense.  The pursuers urged each other on, and called out to head him off, every time they saw Gaston run from one clump of trees to another.

Being familiar with the country, young De Clameran was confident of eluding his pursuers.  He knew that the next field was a thistle-field, and was separated from the chestnut by a long, deep ditch.

He resolved to jump into this ditch, run along the bottom, and climb out at the farther end, while they were looking for him among the trees.

But he had forgotten the swelling of the river.  Upon reaching the ditch, he found it full of water.

Discouraged but not disconcerted, he was about to jump across, when three horsemen appeared on the opposite side.

They were gendarmes who had ridden around the madder-field and chestnut-trees, knowing they could easily catch him on the level ground of the thistle-field.

At the sight of these three men, Gaston stood perplexed.

He should certainly be captured if he attempted to run through the field, at the end of which he could see the cabin of Pilorel the ferryman.

To retrace his steps would be surrendering to the hussars.

At a little distance on his right was a forest, but he was separated from it by a road upon which he heard the sound of approaching horses.  He would certainly be caught there.

Foes in front of him, foes behind him, foes on the right of him!  What was on his left?

On his left was the surging, foaming river.

What hope was left?  The circle of which he was the centre was fast narrowing.

Must he, then, fall back upon suicide?  Here in an open field, tracked by police like a wild beast, must he blow his brains out?  What a death for a De Clameran!

No!  He would seize the one chance of salvation left him:  a forlorn, desperate, perilous chance, but still a chance—­the river.

Holding a pistol in either hand, he ran and leaped upon the edge of a little promontory, projecting three yards into the Rhone.

This cape of refuge was formed by the immense trunk of a fallen tree.

The tree swayed and cracked fearfully under Gaston’s weight, as he stood on the extreme end, and looked around upon his pursuers; there were fifteen of them, some on the right, some on the left, all uttering cries of joy.

“Do you surrender?” called out the corporal.

Gaston did not answer; he was weighing his chances.  He was above the park of La Verberie; would he be able to swim there, granting that he was not swept away and drowned the instant he plunged into the angry torrent before him?