Fortuné got to his feet and tried to put some order into his attire. As he did this he cast a sudden keen glance at the captive who happened to be nearest to him, a man a good ten years younger than himself, fair-haired and slim, and pitiably nervous. "I believe they have recently adopted the happy plan of tying us together two and two," he said to him quietly. "Might I have the honour of being your companion?" The young émigré was obliged to put his hand over his mouth to steady its traitorous twitching before he could reply. Then he said, out of a dry throat: "You are very good, Monsieur, but surely there is someone else you would rather . . . die with? . . ." The Chouan shook his head with a little smile, and as they stood side by side waiting for the soldiers to tie them together, the younger man pulled out from his breast the miniature of a girl, and showed it to him without a word. "Believe me, it will not hurt," said La Vireville in a low voice as their turn came. "I have seen men shot by a firing-party before now. It is over so quickly that they know nothing about it." (Perhaps the youth would have the luck never to find out that this statement was not always true.) "It is nothing near so painful as being tied up like this when one is winged.--De grâce, corporal, put that cord round my right arm instead, if my friend has no objection!" The two changed places, and La Vireville restored his wounded arm to the sling. Before the cord was knotted the officer in charge of the party began to read out the names. Every man answered to his own. "La Vireville, Fortuné." "Present." The officer looked up from the list. "You are not to go with this batch. Why the devil have you tied him up, corporal?" "_Not to . . . not to go . . ._" stammered La Vireville, thinking he must be already dead--and dreaming. "It must be a mistake--you are confusing me with someone else!" "Untie him!" said the officer briefly, offering no explanation; and the corporal, grumbling a little, obeyed. "This is horrible!" said La Vireville to his comrade, a comrade no longer. "Dieu, why did I answer to my name! If I had had the least idea, you should have answered instead." "You are wanted to give somebody else the courage you have given me," answered the young man with an attempt at a smile. "You permit, Monsieur?" And he kissed him. * * * * * A little later--it was still not much after sunrise--they were marched off, two and two, through the quiet streets of the little town towards the red meadow, the 'martyrs' field,' without him, and he sat alone in the deserted chapel, stunned, emptied of any conscious feeling, even of relief. And later still he heard, over the mile or so of distance, the volley which told him that they had reached their journey's end. Fortuné de la Vireville bowed his head and prayed for their souls as he had never prayed for his own--as he would not have prayed, perhaps, had he shared that volley.