Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders.

“Who could have warned them?”

But his tranquillity was feigned; the look which he cast upon Jean proved it.

And it was in the coldest possible tone that he added: 

“It is probable that at this very hour the duke and the marquis are in the power of our friends.”

The cure now attempted to join his efforts to those of the baron.

“You will not go, Lacheneur,” he said.  “You will not remain deaf to the voice of reason.  You are an honest man; think of the frightful responsibility you assume!  What! upon these frail hopes, you dare to peril the lives of hundreds of brave men?  I tell you that you will not succeed; you will be betrayed; I am sure you will be betrayed!”

An expression of horror contracted Lacheneur’s features.  It was evident to all that he was deeply moved.

It is impossible to say what might have happened had it not been for the intervention of Chanlouineau.

This sturdy peasant came forward, brandishing his gun.

“We are wasting too much time in foolish prattling,” he exclaimed with a fierce oath.

Lacheneur started as if he had been struck by a whip.  He rudely freed himself and leaped into the saddle.

“Forward!” he ordered.

But the baron and the priest did not yet despair; they sprang to the horse’s head.

“Lacheneur,” cried the priest, “beware!  The blood you are about to spill will fall upon your head, and upon the heads of your children!”

Appalled by these prophetic words, the little band paused.

Then someone issued from the ranks, clad in the costume of a peasant.

“Marie-Anne!” exclaimed the abbe and the baron in the same breath.

“Yes, I,” responded the young girl, removing the large hat which had partially concealed her face; “I wish to share the dangers of those who are dear to me—­share in their victory or their defeat.  Your counsel comes too late, gentlemen.  Do you see those lights on the horizon?  They tell us that the people of these communes are repairing to the cross-roads at the Croix d’Arcy, the general rendezvous.  Before two o’clock fifteen hundred men will be gathered there awaiting my father’s commands.  Would you have him leave these men, whom he has called from their peaceful firesides, without a leader?  Impossible!”

She evidently shared the madness of her lover and father, even if she did not share all their hopes.

“No, there must be no more hesitation, no more parleying,” she continued.  “Prudence now would be the height of folly.  There is no more danger in a retreat than in an advance.  Do not try to detain my father, gentlemen; each moment of delay may, perhaps, cost a man’s life.  And now, my friends, forward!”

A loud cheer answered her, and the little band descended the hill.

But M. d’Escorval could not allow his own son, whom he saw in the ranks, to depart thus.