“You cannot go to the chateau, dearest, when we have every reason to suppose it is in the hands of the republicans, and more than probably burnt to the ground by this time.”

“Oh! don’t send me back to Chatillon,” said Marie; “it would be hours and hours before we should hear what happens to you, and what has happened to Agatha.”

“If the ladies wouldn’t think ill of going to Echanbroignes,” said Jean Stein, “they would be safe there, and near at hand to learn all as it goes on at Durbelliere.  I am sure father and Annot would do their best to make the ladies comfortable, as long as they might be pleased to stay there.”

After considerable discussion this plan was adopted.  The party travelled on together, till the roads to Durbelliere and Echanbroignes separated; and then, with many charges, the two ladies were entrusted to the care of the smith’s son.

“We will come to you, or send to you the moment we are able,” said de Lescure,” whether our news be good or bad.  I trust we shall find them safe, and that we shall all be together tomorrow at Durbelliere.”

Marie and Madame de Lescure reached the village safely late in the evening, and found no one in the smith’s house but Annot.  Even Michael Stein himself had been moved by hearing that the republicans were absolutely in possession of the chateau, and, old as he was, he had made his way over to Durbelliere, and had not yet returned.  Annot, however, received them with good news; she had heard different messages from the chateau during the day, and was able to tell them not only that the Marquis, Agatha, and the house were safe, but that the republican soldiers were all prisoners, and that Santerre—­that object of horror to many Vendean royalists, had himself been captured by the strong hand and bold heart of Jacques Chapeau.

Neither of the ladies knew Annot Stein, or had even heard of her; but Annot, though at present she was rather doleful, was not long in making herself known to them, and explaining to them her own particular connexion with the chateau.

She made up her own bed for one of them, and her father’s for the other.  They were not, she said, such as ladies like them were accustomed to sleep on, but the sheets were clean, and perhaps for one night they would excuse the want of better accommodation.  Madame de Lescure and Marie declared that they were only too happy in being able to rest quietly, with the knowledge that their friends were in safety.  Poor ladies! they were destined before long to encounter worse hardships than Annot Stein’s little bed, and frugal supper.

“But, Madame,” said Annot, as she sat demurely on the corner of her chair, “this Santerre is not the sort of man at all we all took him to be.  Peter was over here, though he has gone back again now, and Peter says he is quite a good fellow in his way.”

“What, Santerre!” said Marie, shuddering.  “Oh! he is a most horrid monster!  It was he that led out our dear sainted King to be murdered; it was he that urged on the furious mob to spill so much blood.  They say that in all Paris there is not a greater wretch than this Santerre.”