“Go out at the front gate, Francois, and by the church at Terves; it is the better road.  You will remain a couple of hours in Bressuire.  We shall overtake you before you reach Beaulieu.”

The servant acknowledged his master’s commands, and fastened the last rope which bound the oxen to their burden.  He spoke to his beasts, and accompanied his word with a goad from a pointed stick he held in his hand, when his farther progress was stopped by Henri’s calling from a little distance down the road.

“Stop, Francois, stop!” said he.  “Charles, come here; some one is coming hither at the top of his speed.  Don’t you hear the noise of hoofs upon the road?”

De Lescure ran to him, and kneeling down, put his ear to the ground.  “It’s a donkey or a mule,” said he; “it is not a horse’s foot.”

“Come down the avenue,” said Henri, “and let us see who it is.  Whether mule or horse, the beast is going at his full speed.”

“Better stay where we are,” said de Lescure.  “If he be coming to us, his news will reach the house quicker than by our going to meet him.”

The rider grew nearer and nearer, and in a few moments turned up the road leading to the back of the house.  The steps of the tired brute became slower as he trotted up the avenue, although the sound of a cudgel on his ribs were plainly audible.  Henri and de Lescure were standing under the garden wall, and as the animal drew near them, they saw it was a jaded donkey, ridden by a peasant girl.

“Fly, for the sake of God!” said the girl, even before she dismounted from the donkey; “fly for the sake of the blessed Virgin.  Take the ladies from the chateau, or they will be burnt—­be burnt—­be burnt!”

As she screamed the last words she slipped from the donkey, and almost fainted with the exertion she had undergone.  She was the daughter of one of M. de Lescure’s servants, and had been sent from Clisson into service at the chateau, from whence Westerman started on his expedition.  When the republicans made their appearance there, she had fled with the other servants, but she had hung about the house, and about an hour and a half before Westerman left the place she learnt, through some of the soldiers, his intention of attacking Clisson that night.

“Who is coming to burn us, Marian?” said de Lescure, endeavouring by his own assumed coolness to enable her to collect her thoughts and power of speech.

“The blues—­the blues!” screamed the girl.  “They had all but overtaken me when I got to the short cut through the wood.  There they are, there they are,” and the noise of the advancing troop was distinctly audible through the stillness of the night.

The poor girl was quite exhausted, and fell to the ground fainting.  De Lescure and Henri had both stood still for a moment, after having been made to comprehend that an immediate attack was about to be made on the chateau, but it was only for a moment.