“That’s not to be refused, cousin,” said Pille-Miche. The two Chouans entered the cottage. So far there was nothing alarming for the master of the house, who hastened to fill three beakers from his huge cask of cider, while Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche, sitting on the polished benches on each side of the long table, cut the cake and spread it with the rich yellow butter from which the milk spurted as the knife smoothed it. Galope-Chopine placed the beakers full of frothing cider before his guests, and the three Chouans began to eat; but from time to time the master of the house cast side-long glances at Marche-a-Terre as he drank his cider. “Lend me your snuff-box,” said Marche-a-Terre to Pille-Miche. Having shaken several pinches into the palm of his hand the Breton inhaled the tobacco like a man who is making ready for serious business. “It is cold,” said Pille-Miche, rising to shut the upper half of the door. The daylight, already dim with fog, now entered only through the little window, and feebly lighted the room and the two seats; the fire, however, gave out a ruddy glow. Galope-Chopine refilled the beakers, but his guests refused to drink again, and throwing aside their large hats looked at him solemnly. Their gestures and the look they gave him terrified Galope-Chopine, who fancied he saw blood in the red woollen caps they wore. “Fetch your axe,” said Marche-a-Terre. “But, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, what do you want it for?” “Come, cousin, you know very well,” said Pille-Miche, pocketing his snuff-box which Marche-a-Terre returned to him; “you are condemned.” The two Chouans rose together and took their guns. “Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, I never said one word about the Gars--” “I told you to fetch your axe,” said Marche-a-Terre. The hapless man knocked against the wooden bedstead of his son, and several five-franc pieces rolled on the floor. Pille-Miche picked them up. “Ho! ho! the Blues paid you in new money,” cried Marche-a-Terre. “As true as that’s the image of Saint-Labre,” said Galope-Chopine, “I have told nothing. Barbette mistook the Fougeres men for the gars of Saint-Georges, and that’s the whole of it.” “Why do you tell things to your wife?” said Marche-a-Terre, roughly. “Besides, cousin, we don’t want excuses, we want your axe. You are condemned.” At a sign from his companion, Pille-Miche helped Marche-a-Terre to seize the victim. Finding himself in their grasp Galope-Chopine lost all power and fell on his knees holding up his hands to his slayers in desperation. “My friends, my good friends, my cousin,” he said, “what will become of my little boy?” “I will take charge of him,” said Marche-a-Terre. “My good comrades,” cried the victim, turning livid. “I am not fit to die. Don’t make me go without confession. You have the right to take my life, but you’ve no right to make me lose a blessed eternity.” “That is true,” said Marche-a-Terre, addressing Pille-Miche.