“Be quiet, Arthur, do not anger him,” whispered Agatha.  “It is not generous, you know, to insult a fallen foe.”

“There are no terms to be kept with a traitor, Agatha.  If we get the better of this, Santerre, as I am sure we shall now, you shall see that I know how to treat a generous foe generously.”

When Santerre reached the front of the house, he at once saw that any attempt on his part to oppose the crowd of armed peasants who were now close upon him, would be futile.  The only mode of escape which appeared to him at all practicable, was to attempt to ride through them.  He gave the command “to horse,” and got so far himself as to mount into his saddle; but it was of no use, he was surrounded by a crowd of peasants before he got to the gate, and he soon found himself on foot again, and unarmed.  Some ten or twenty of his men, who were ready to jump into the saddle at the moment when they were first aware of the approach of the royalists, escaped, but the remainder in a few minutes found themselves prisoners in the chateau.

The peasants were headed by Father Jerome, the priest of St. Laud, and it was he who first mounted the steps leading up to the front door of the house.  “Thank God,” said he, speaking more to himself than to those around him.  “Thank God!” and he stood up against the pedestal of one of the lions, the heavy wooden crucifix which he had carried in his hand as he marched, or rather ran, to the succour of his friends at Durbelliere; and then he took off his cap, and with the sleeve of his dusty grey coat he wiped the perspiration from off his brow.  “And the Marquis and Mademoiselle are unhurt?  Thank God—­thank God! we were just in time, but we had a smart run for it.”

Chapeau had already dived into the kitchen through the window, and had learnt that at any rate the republicans had as yet shed no blood.

“And how did the Marquis bear it, Momont?” said he.  “It was enough to kill the old gentleman.”

“’Why, yes,” said Momont.  “We had to bear a good deal, but we did bear it manfully and well.  We were all led out to be shot, you know.”

“What, the Marquis and Mademoiselle and all?” said Chapeau.

“No, not the Marquis and Mademoiselle; they were to be beheaded after us, but the rest of us were all taken out—­the muskets loaded—­the men to shoot us all in a line.”

“Oh!  Chapeau, it was so awfully dreadful,” said the cook.  “If I live a thousand years I shall never get over this night,”

“Oh, yes! most dreadfully awful,” said the laundress.  “I was carried in from the spot, and have not been able to move a limb since.  I doubt I never shall put a foot to the ground again.”

“The muskets were to their shoulders,” continued Momont.  “We heard them cocked:  each man took deliberate aim; the women here were screeching and screaming.”

“Of course we were,” said the confidential maid.  “Hadn’t we good cause to scream, waiting to be killed every minute.  I’m sure I wonder I ever came to my senses again.  I declare when they came to pick me up, I thought it was all over, and that I’d been shot already.”