So they began their last withdrawal, still slowly and in good order, but forced all the time by the lack of cartridges to go through the bitter farce of taking aim without firing; and were thus driven gradually down to the extremity of the peninsula and the sea. The shore was covered with fugitives, mostly peasants and Chouans, running towards the Fort Neuf or trying desperately to get a place in the overcrowded boats of the English squadron, which, despite the high sea that was running, had been hard at work, but were now being obliged to abandon their efforts. And it was now that La Vireville, sword in hand--for he could not use a musket--came suddenly on an officer lying, wrapped about in a cloak, in a little dip in the sandhills. Two soldiers stood near him, looking down at him. Fortuné had no time to wonder who it was, for he saw at once the drawn features of René de Flavigny. He stopped and knelt down by him among the coarse grass and the sea-pinks. On the scarlet of the English tunic, with its black facings, no blood was visible, but the grey of the Marquis's face was evidence enough of what had happened. His eyes were closed, and La Vireville half thought him unconscious. "Where are you hit, René?" he asked quietly. De Flavigny opened his eyes. "Shot in the back," he said in a faint voice. "But . . . it would be of no account . . . if only . . . O my God! It was my own men!" He raised a trembling hand and put it over his eyes. "O my God!" he said again. "You must be got off to the English fleet without delay," said La Vireville with decision, though his heart sank. "How did you come here?" "We carried him, mon officier," replied one of the soldiers, coming forward and saluting, and La Vireville saw that he was a sergeant of du Dresnay. "We will try to get him into a boat--but it will be very difficult. They are nearly all gone back to the ships." "For God's sake do your best, however!" urged the Chouan. "It is useless, Fortuné," whispered de Flavigny. "You see I was right. Remember your promise. . . . Kiss me . . . and kiss Anne for me." And, as La Vireville bent and kissed him, he relapsed into unconsciousness. There was not a moment to lose. Already the little group was isolated between the retiring Royalists and the oncoming Republicans. La Vireville hastily thrust some money into the soldiers' hands, saw them raise their insensible burden, picked up his sword, and ran back to the retreating ranks. (4) And by the crumbling, four-foot walls of the little fort--a veritable children's citadel of sand--with its one rusty cannon that pointed seawards, amid the roar of the waves, the cries of the drowning, and the persistent booming of the guns of the English corvette, the _Lark_ (which, by firing steadily on the stretch of beach and sandhills between the defeated and the conquerors, was retarding rather than averting the inevitable), the last words were written on the fatal page of Quiberon.