“I don’t know; Pierre drove me back and told me not to stir from here.” “Which way did they go?” “That way,” she replied, pointing to the causeway. The captain and Francine then noticed in that direction a line of strong shadows thrown by the moonlight on the lake, and among them that of a female figure. “It is she!” cried Francine. Mademoiselle de Verneuil seemed to be standing, as if resigned, in the midst of other figures, whose gestures denoted a debate. “There are several,” said the captain. “Well, no matter, let us go to them.” “You will get yourself killed uselessly,” said Francine. “I have been killed once before to-day,” he said gaily. They both walked towards the gloomy gateway which led to the causeway; there Francine suddenly stopped short. “No,” she said, gently, “I’ll go no farther; Pierre told me not to meddle; I believe in him; if we go on we shall spoil all. Do as you please, officer, but leave me. If Pierre saw us together he would kill you.” Just then Pille-Miche appeared in the gateway and called to the postilion who was left in the stable. At the same moment he saw the captain and covered him with his musket, shouting out, “By Saint Anne of Auray! the rector was right enough in telling us the Blues had signed a compact with the devil. I’ll bring you to life, I will!” “Stop! my life is sacred,” cried Merle, seeing his danger. “There’s the glove of your Gars,” and he held it out. “Ghosts’ lives are not sacred,” replied the Chouan, “and I sha’n’t give you yours. Ave Maria!” He fired, and the ball passed through his victim’s head. The captain fell. When Francine reached him she heard him mutter the words, “I’d rather die with them than return without them.” The Chouan sprang upon the body to strip it, saying, “There’s one good thing about ghosts, they come to life in their clothes.” Then, recognizing the Gars’ glove, that sacred safeguard, in the captain’s hand, he stopped short, terrified. “I wish I wasn’t in the skin of my mother’s son!” he exclaimed, as he turned and disappeared with the rapidity of a bird. To understand this scene, so fatal to poor Merle, we must follow Mademoiselle de Verneuil after the marquis, in his fury and despair, had abandoned her to Pille-Miche. Francine had caught Marche-a-Terre by the arm and reminded him, with sobs, of the promise he had made her. Pille-Miche was already dragging away his victim like a heavy bundle. Marie, her head and hair hanging back, turned her eyes to the lake; but held as she was in a grasp of iron she was forced to follow the Chouan, who turned now and then to hasten her steps, and each time that he did so a jovial thought brought a hideous smile upon his face. “Isn’t she a morsel!” he cried, with a coarse laugh. Hearing the words, Francine recovered speech. “Pierre?” “Well, what?” “He’ll kill her.” “Not at once.” “Then she’ll kill herself, she will never submit; and if she dies I shall die too.”