It was a beautiful October evening, and as the sun was setting, the two were standing close to the edge of the water, congratulating themselves that their dirty and disagreeable toil was well nigh over.  From time to time stragglers were still coming down to the river-side, begging for a passage, and imploring that they might not be abandoned to the cruelty of the blues, and as they came they were shipped off on the raft.  There were now, however, no more than would make one fair load, and Chapeau and Arthur were determined that it was full time for them both to leave the Anjou side of the river, and follow the main body of the army towards Laval.

“We might remain here for ever, Chapeau, if we stayed for the very last of all,” said the Chevalier, as he jumped on the raft.  “Come, man, get on, we’ve our number now, and we couldn’t take more, if they come.  There’s some one hallooing up there, and we’ll leave the little boat for them.  Come, I want to get over and have a run on dry land, for I’m as cold as a stone.  This living like a duck, half in the water and half out, don’t suit me at all.  The next river we cross over, I’ll make Henri get another ferryman.”

Chapeau still lingered on the shore, and putting his hand up to his ear, listened to the voice of some one who was calling from a distance.  It was too dark for him to distinguish any one, but the voice of a woman hallooing loudly, but with difficulty, as though she were out of breath with running, was plainly audible.

“If you mean to wait here all night, I don’t,” said the Chevalier, “so good night to you, and if you don’t get on, I’ll push off without you.”

“Stop a moment, M. Arthur, there’s a woman there.”

“I’ve no doubt there is—­there are fifty women there—­fifty hundred women, I dare say; but we can’t wait while they all drop in one by one.  Don’t be a fool, Jacques; is not there the small boat left for them?”

Chapeau still listened.  “Stop a moment, M. Arthur, for heaven’s sake stop one moment,” and then jumping on to the raft, he clung hold of the rope, and moored it fast to the shore.  “They’re friends of my own, M. Arthur; most particular friends, or I wouldn’t ask to keep you.  Don’t go now; after all we’ve gone through together, you won’t leave my friends behind, if I go on shore, will you, M. Arthur?”

“Oh, I’m a good comrade; if they’re private friends, I’ll wait all night.  Only I hope there ain’t a great many of them.”

“Only two; I think there are only two,” and Chapeau once more jumped on shore, and ran to meet his friends.  He had not far to go, for the party was now close to the water’s edge.  As he had supposed, it consisted only of two, an old man and a girl:  Michael Stein and his daughter Annot.  Annot had been running; and dragging her father by the hand, had hallooed with all her breath, for she had heard from some of those who still dared to trust themselves to the blues, that the last boat was on the point of leaving the shore.  The old man had disdained to halloo, and had almost disdained to run; but he had suffered himself to be hurried into a shambling kind of gait, and when he was met by Chapeau, he was almost as much out of breath as his daughter.