He promised them two thousand men; had he promised them ten thousand, twenty thousand—­an army and cannon, it would have made no difference.

Not until they reached the wide-open space of the cross-roads, where they had talked so confidently scarcely an hour before, did the most intelligent of the throng regain their senses, while the others fled in every direction.

About a hundred of the bravest and most determined of the conspirators gathered around M. Lacheneur.  In the little crowd was the abbe, gloomy and despondent.  He had been separated from the baron.  What had been his fate?  Had he been killed or taken prisoner?  Was it possible that he had made his escape?

The worthy priest dared not go away.  He waited, hoping that his companion might rejoin him, and deemed himself fortunate in finding the carriage still there.  He was still waiting when the remnant of the column confided to Maurice and Chanlouineau came up.

Of the five hundred men that composed it on its departure from Sairmeuse, only fifteen remained, including the two retired officers.

Marie-Anne was in the centre of this little party.

M. Lacheneur and his friends were trying to decide what course it was best for them to pursue.  Should each man go his way? or should they unite, and by an obstinate resistance, give all their comrades time to reach their homes?

The voice of Chanlouineau put an end to all hesitation.

“I have come to fight,” he exclaimed, “and I shall sell my life dearly.”

“We will make a stand then!” cried the others.

But Chanlouineau did not follow them to the spot which they had considered best adapted to the prolonged defence; he called Maurice and drew him a little aside.

“You, Monsieur d’Escorval,” he said, almost roughly, “are going to leave here and at once.”

“I—­I came here, Chanlouineau, as you did, to do my duty.”

“Your duty, Monsieur, is to serve Marie-Anne.  Go at once, and take her with you.”

“I shall remain,” said Maurice, firmly.

He was going to join his comrades when Chanlouineau stopped him.

“You have no right to sacrifice your life here,” he said, quietly.  “Your life belongs to the woman who has given herself to you.”

“Wretch! how dare you!”

Chanlouineau sadly shook his head.

“What is the use of denying it?” said he.

“It was so great a temptation that only an angel could have resisted it.  It was not your fault, nor was it hers.  Lacheneur was a bad father.  There was a day when I wished either to kill myself or to kill you, I knew not which.  Ah! only once again will you be as near death as you were that day.  You were scarcely five paces from the muzzle of my gun.  It was God who stayed my hand by reminding me of her despair.  Now that I am to die, as well as Lacheneur, someone must care for Marie-Anne.  Swear that you will marry her.  You may be involved in some difficulty on account of this affair; but I have here the means of saving you.”