Jeannet became as crazy as the rest. He fired so often, his gun was burning in his hands; his dishevelled hair, and his face, blackened with powder, changed his appearance so completely no one would have recognized him. He loaded and reloaded, fired at hazard, and no longer heard Michou, who, always at his side, cried, “Look out!” every moment. Suddenly the game‐keeper gave a yell that resembled the howl of a wolf. A man, covered with blood, had just leaped upon the ruins of the barricade, and aimed at Jean‐Louis, who was not three steps from his gun. It is not easy to make you understand the rapidity with which old Michou threw himself before Jeannet to preserve his life. It was like a flash of lightning, but that flash sufficed; he had time to fire before the rioter, who rolled lifeless on the heaped‐up pavement. All was ended. Five minutes afterwards, at least in that corner, it only remained to remove the dead, and carry the wounded into the neighboring houses, where the women were ready to dress the wounds. There was time to breathe. Alas! the poor, blinded people paid dearly in that quarter for their folly and madness. All the unfortunate wretches who had raised that barricade were dead or dying. Jacques looked around for his master and his friend. M. le Marquis, with his arm all bleeding, was seated leaning against a post, very weak and faint from his wound; but his eyes sparkled, and a smile was upon his lips. The game‐keeper rushed to him. “It is nothing, old fellow,” said our master, “only a scratch on the wrist; lend me your handkerchief.” By the mercy of God, it was really not much; and our dear lord quietly wrapped up his hand, while he asked about Jeannet. “Heaven has worked miracles for that child,” said Michou proudly. “Ah! he is a brave boy, I tell you. He fought both like a fox and a lion!” “I wish to see him,” said M. le Marquis. “Go bring him to me.” Jacques willingly obeyed. It was some time before he found his pupil—for such he could be called. He was in the midst of a crowd that surrounded him and loaded him with congratulations and compliments on his bravery. His conduct had been noted, and the commanding officer was then asking him his name and residence, that he might inscribe them in his report. Jeannet, who shrank from observation, looked like a criminal before his judges. Michou, seeing him so timid and confused, told him he was a fool, and came very near being angry himself. “Just see how frightened you are now!” said he to him, in such a cross tone the officer smiled. “Excuse him, colonel, he always looks sheepish when before people he don’t know. His name is Jean‐Louis Ragaud, and he comes from the commune of Val‐Saint‐sur‐Range, near Issoudun.” “All right,” said the officer; “that is enough, my brave fellow. Jean Ragaud, Gen. Cavaignac will hear of you, ... and, if it depends on me, you will hear from him.” Jeannet bowed as awkwardly as possible, which made the game‐keeper grumble again.