“Only too well!” He said no more. The abbe had done all it was possible to do, and was now lifting the wounded man a little higher on Madame d’Escorval’s knees. This change of position elicited a moan which betrayed the baron’s intense sufferings. He opened his eyes and faltered a few words--the first he had uttered. “Firmin!” he murmured, “Firmin!” This was the name of his former secretary, a devoted helpmate who had been dead for several years. It was evident that the baron’s mind was wandering. Still he had some vague idea of his terrible situation, for in a stifled, almost inaudible voice, he added: “Oh! how I suffer! Firmin, I will not fall into the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu alive. I would rather kill myself.” This was all; his eyes closed again, and his head fell back a dead weight. The officers clustering round believed that he had expired, and it was with poignant anxiety that they drew the abbe aside. “Is it all over?” they asked. “Is there any hope?” The priest shook his head sadly, and pointing to heaven: “My hope is in God!” he said reverently. The hour, the place, the catastrophe, the present danger, the threatening future, all combined to impart solemnity to the priest’s few words; and so profound was the impression that, for a moment, these men, familiar with death and peril, stood in awed silence. Maurice, who approached, followed by Corporal Bavois, brought them back to the exigencies of the situation. “Ought we not to make haste and carry my father away?” he asked. “Mustn’t we be in Piedmont before evening?” “Yes!” exclaimed one of the officers, “let us start at once.” But the priest did not move, and it was in a despondent voice that he remarked: “Any attempt to carry M. d’Escorval across the frontier in his present condition would cost him his life.” This seemed so inevitably a death-warrant for them all, that they shuddered. “My God! what shall we do?” faltered Maurice. “What course shall we adopt?” No one replied. It was clear that they hoped for salvation through the priest alone. He was lost in thought, and it was some time before he spoke. “About an hour’s walk from here,” he said, at last, “beyond the Croix-d’Arcy, lives a peasant on whom I can rely. His name is Poignot; and he was formerly in M. Lacheneur’s employ. With the assistance of his three sons, he now tills quite a large farm. We must procure a litter and carry M. d’Escorval to this honest peasant’s house.” “What,” interrupted one of the officers, “you want us to procure a litter at this hour of the night, and in this neighbourhood?” “It must be done.” “But won’t it awake suspicion?” “Most assuredly.” “The Montaignac police will follow us.” “I am certain of it.” “The baron will be recaptured?”