“Let Mademoiselle de Counornieu pass without hinderance.”

He affected a calmness which he did not in the least feel.

“You are easily discouraged, gentlemen,” he said, bitterly.  “There is, at least, one more chance.”

“The devil!  Then you have resources of which we are ignorant?”

“Perhaps—­that depends.  You have just passed the Croix d’Arcy; did you tell any of those people what you have just told me?”

“Not a word.”

“How many men are there at the rendezvous?”

“At least two thousand.”

“And what is their mood?”

“They are burning to begin the struggle.  They are cursing our slowness, and told me to entreat you to make haste.”

“In that case our cause is not lost,” said Lacheneur, with a threatening gesture.  “Wait here until the peasants come up, and say to them that you were sent to tell them to make haste.  Bring them on as quickly as possible, and have confidence in me; I will be responsible for the success of the enterprise.”

He said this, then putting spurs to his horse, galloped away.  He had deceived the men.  He had no other resources.  He did not have the slightest hope of success.  It was an abominable falsehood.  But, if this edifice, which he had erected with such care and labor, was to totter and fall, he desired to be buried beneath its ruins.  They would be defeated; he was sure of it, but what did that matter?  In the conflict he would seek death and find it.

Bitter discontent pervaded the crowd at the Croix d’Arcy; and after the passing of the officers, who had hastened to warn Lacheneur of the disaster at Montaignac, the murmurs of dissatisfaction were changed to curses.

These peasants, nearly two thousand in number, were indignant at not finding their leader awaiting them at the rendezvous.

“Where is he?” they asked.  “Who knows but he is afraid at the last moment?  Perhaps he is concealing himself while we are risking our lives and the bread of our children here.”

And already the epithets of mischief-maker and traitor were flying from lip to lip, and increasing the anger in every breast.

Some were of the opinion that the crowd should disperse; others wished to march against Montaignac without Lacheneur, and that, immediately.

But these deliberations were interrupted by the furious gallop of a horse.

A carriage appeared, and stopped in the centre of the open space.

Two men alighted; Baron d’Escorval and Abbe Midon.

They were in advance of Lacheneur.  They thought they had arrived in time.

Alas! here, as on the Reche, all their efforts, all their entreaties, and all their threats were futile.

They had come in the hope of arresting the movement; they only precipitated it.

“We have gone too far to draw back,” exclaimed one of the neighboring farmers, who was the recognized leader in Lacheneur’s absence.  “If death is before us, it is also behind us.  To attack and conquer—­that is our only hope of salvation.  Forward, then, at once.  That is the only way of disconcerting our enemies.  He who hesitates is a coward!  Forward!”