As the priest approached the house, a short, slim peasant with grey hair and a sunburnt face emerged from the stable. This was Father Poignot himself. “What! is this you, Monsieur le Cure!” he exclaimed, delightedly. “Heavens! how pleased my wife will be. We have a great favour to ask of you----” And then, without giving the abbe an opportunity to open his lips, the farmer began to relate his perplexities. The night of the revolt he had given shelter to a poor fellow who had received an ugly swordthrust. Neither his wife nor himself knew how to dress the wound, and he did not dare to send for a doctor. “And this wounded man,” he added, “is Jean Lacheneur, my old employer’s son.” This recital made the priest feel very anxious. This peasant had already given an asylum to one wounded conspirator, but would he consent to receive another? He could not say, but his voice trembled as he presented his petition. The farmer turned very pale and shook his head gravely more than once, while the priest was speaking. When the abbe had finished, he coldly asked: “Do you know, sir, that I incur a great risk by converting my house into a hospital for these rebels?” The abbe dared not answer. “They told me,” continued Father Poignot, “that I was a coward, because I would not join in the revolt. Such was not my opinion. Now, however, I choose to shelter these wounded men. In my opinion, it requires quite as much courage to do that as to go and fight.” “Ah! you are a brave fellow!” cried the abbe. “Never mind about that, but bring M. d’Escorval here. There is no one but my wife and boys, and they won’t betray him!” The offer was at once accepted, and half-an-hour later the baron was lying in a small loft, where Jean Lacheneur was already installed. From the window, the Abbe Midon and Madame d’Escorval watched the little party, organized for the purpose of deceiving the Duke de Sairmeuse’s spies, as it moved rapidly away. Corporal Bavois, with his head bound up with blood-stained linen, had taken the baron’s place on the litter carried by the retired officers. These latter only knew the baron by name and reputation. But then he was the friend of their former ruler--the friend of that great captain whom they had made their idol, and they rejoiced with all their hearts when they saw him reposing under Father Poignot’s roof in comparative security. After this, there was the task of misleading the government emissaries, and they took various skilful precautions, not knowing that they were quite unnecessary. Public sentiment had declared itself in an unmistakable manner, and the police did not ascertain a single detail of the escape. They did not even hear of the little party that travelled nearly three leagues in the full light of day, bearing a wounded man upon a litter. Among the two thousand peasants who believed that this wounded man was the Baron d’Escorval, there was not one who turned informer, or made an indiscreet remark.