“The victim must have lost a great deal of blood,” remarked the priest; “it might be possible to discover who he was by following these stains.” “Yes, I will try,” replied Jean with alacrity. “Go into the house, sir; I will soon be back again.” A child might have followed the trail of the wounded man, for the blood stains left along his line of route were so frequent and distinct. These tell-tale marks led to Chupin’s hovel, the door of which was closed. Jean rapped, however, without the slightest hesitation, and when the old poacher’s eldest son opened the door, he perceived a very singular spectacle. The dead body had been thrown on to the ground, in a corner of the hut, the bedstead was overturned and broken, all the straw had been torn from the mattress, and the dead man’s wife and sons armed with spades and pick-axes were wildly overturning the beaten soil that formed the hovel’s only floor. They were seeking for the hidden treasure, for the 20,000 francs in gold, paid for Lacheneur’s betrayal! “What do you want?” asked the widow, roughly. “I want to see Father Chupin.” “Can’t you see that he’s been murdered,” replied one of the sons. And brandishing his pick close to Jean’s head, he added: “And you’re the murderer, perhaps. But that’s for justice to determine. Now, decamp; if you don’t want me to do for you.” Jean could scarcely restrain himself from punishing young Chupin for his threat, but under the circumstances a conflict was scarcely permissible. Accordingly, he turned without another word hastened back to the Borderie. Chupin’s death upset all his plans, and greatly irritated him. “I swore that the wretch who betrayed my father should perish by my hand,” he murmured; “and now I am deprived of my vengeance. Some one has cheated me out of it. Who could it be? Can Martial have assassinated Chupin after he murdered Marie-Anne? The best way to assure one’s self of an accomplice’s silence is certainly to kill him.” Jean had reached the Borderie, and was on the point of going up-stairs, when he fancied he heard some one talking in the back room. “That’s strange,” he said to himself. “Who can it be?” And yielding to the impulse of curiosity, he tapped against the communicating door. The abbe instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing the door behind him. He was very pale and agitated. “Who’s there?” inquired Jean, eagerly. “Why, Maurice d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois.” “My God!” “And it’s a miracle that Maurice has not been up stairs.” “But whence does he come from? Why have we had no news of him?” “I don’t know. He has only been here five minutes. Poor boy! after I told him his father was safe, his first words were: ‘And Marie-Anne!’ He loves her more devotedly than ever. He comes home with his heart full of her, confident and hopeful; and I tremble--I fear to tell him the truth.” “Yes, it’s really too terrible!”