A stifled cry from his wife interrupted him.

He turned, and saw her fall almost fainting against the door, her face whiter than her coif, her finger pointing to the path that led from Saint-Pavin to their cottage.

“The soldiers—­they are coming!” she gasped.

Quicker than thought, Lacheneur and the peasant sprang to the door to see for themselves.

The young woman had spoken the truth.

The Montaignac chasseurs were climbing the steep foot-path slowly, but surely.

Chupin walked in advance, urging them on with voice, gesture and example.

An imprudent word from the little shepherd-boy, whom M. Lacheneur had questioned, had decided the fugitive’s fate.

On returning to Saint-Pavin, and hearing that the soldiers were searching for the chief conspirator, the lad chanced to say: 

“I met a man just now on the mountain who asked me where he was; and I saw him go down the footpath leading to Antoine’s cottage.”

And in proof of his words, he proudly displayed the piece of silver which Lacheneur had given him.

“One more bold stroke and we have our man!” exclaimed Chupin.  “Come, comrades!”

And now the party were not more than two hundred feet from the house in which the proscribed man had found an asylum.

Antoine and his wife looked at each other with anguish in their eyes.

They saw that their visitor was lost.

“We must save him! we must save him!” cried the woman.

“Yes, we must save him!” repeated the husband, gloomily.  “They shall kill me before I betray a man in my own house.”

“If he would hide in the stable behind the bundles of straw——­”

“They would find him!  These soldiers are worse than tigers, and the wretch who leads them on must have the keen scent of a blood-hound.”

He turned quickly to Lacheneur.

“Come, sir,” said he, “let us leap from the back window and flee to the mountains.  They will see us, but no matter!  These horsemen are always clumsy runners.  If you cannot run, I will carry you.  They will probably fire at us, but they will miss us.”

“And your wife?” asked Lacheneur.

The honest mountaineer shuddered; but he said: 

“She will join us.”

Lacheneur took his friend’s hand and pressed it tenderly.

“Ah! you are noble people,” he exclaimed, “and God will reward you for your kindness to a poor fugitive.  But you have done too much already.  I should be the basest of men if I consented to uselessly expose you to danger.  I can bear this life no longer; I have no wish to escape.”

He drew the sobbing woman to him and kissed her upon the forehead.

“I have a daughter, young and beautiful like yourself, as generous and proud.  Poor Marie-Anne!  And I have pitilessly sacrificed her to my hatred!  I should not complain; come what may, I have deserved it.”