“They made me believe they were the gars of Saint-Georges,” she said, trembling, “it was I who told them the Gars was here.” Galope-Chopine turned pale himself and dropped his porringer on the table. “I sent the boy to warn you,” said Barbette, frightened, “didn’t you meet him?” The Chouan rose and struck his wife so violently that she dropped, pale as death, upon the bed. “You cursed woman,” he said, “you have killed me!” Then seized with remorse, he took her in his arms. “Barbette!” he cried, “Barbette!--Holy Virgin, my hand was too heavy!” “Do you think,” she said, opening her eyes, “that Marche-a-Terre will hear of it?” “The Gars will certainly inquire who betrayed him.” “Will he tell it to Marche-a-Terre?” “Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche were both at Florigny.” Barbette breathed a little easier. “If they touch a hair of your head,” she cried, “I’ll rinse their glasses with vinegar.” “Ah! I can’t eat,” said Galope-Chopine, anxiously. His wife set another pitcher full of cider before him, but he paid no heed to it. Two big tears rolled from the woman’s eyes and moistened the deep furrows of her withered face. “Listen to me, wife; to-morrow morning you must gather fagots on the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, to the right and Saint-Leonard and set fire to them. That is a signal agreed upon between the Gars and the old rector of Saint-Georges who is to come and say mass for him.” “Is the Gars going to Fougeres?” “Yes, to see his handsome garce. I have been sent here and there all day about it. I think he is going to marry her and carry her off; for he told me to hire horses and have them ready on the road to Saint-Malo.” Thereupon Galope-Chopine, who was tired out, went to bed for an hour or two, at the end of which time he again departed. Later, on the following morning, he returned, having carefully fulfilled all the commissions entrusted to him by the Gars. Finding that Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche had not appeared at the cottage, he relieved the apprehensions of his wife, who went off, reassured, to the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, where she had collected the night before several piles of fagots, now covered with hoarfrost. The boy went with her, carrying fire in a broken wooden shoe. Hardly had his wife and son passed out of sight behind the shed when Galope-Chopine heard the noise of men jumping the successive barriers, and he could dimly see, through the fog which was growing thicker, the forms of two men like moving shadows. “It is Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche,” he said, mentally; then he shuddered. The two Chouans entered the courtyard and showed their gloomy faces under the broad-brimmed hats which made them look like the figures which engravers introduce into their landscapes. “Good-morning, Galope-Chopine,” said Marche-a-Terre, gravely. “Good-morning, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre,” replied the other, humbly. “Will you come in and drink a drop? I’ve some cold buckwheat cake and fresh-made butter.”