The strategical problem which troubled the commandant was causing quite as much uneasiness to the persons whom he had just seen on the summit of Mont Pelerine. As soon as the drums of the National Guard were out of hearing and Marche-a-Terre had seen the Blues at the foot of the declivity, he gave the owl’s cry joyously, and the Chouans reappeared, but their numbers were less. Some were no doubt busy in taking care of the wounded in the little village of La Pelerine, situated on the side of the mountain which looks toward the valley of Couesnon. Two or three chiefs of what were called the “Chasseurs du Roi” clustered about Marche-a-Terre. A few feet apart sat the young noble called The Gars, on a granite rock, absorbed in thoughts excited by the difficulties of his enterprise, which now began to show themselves. Marche-a-Terre screened his forehead with his hand from the rays of the sun, and looked gloomily at the road by which the Blues were crossing the valley of La Pelerine. His small black eyes could see what was happening on the hill-slopes on the other side of the valley. “The Blues will intercept the messenger,” said the angry voice of one of the leaders who stood near him. “By Saint Anne of Auray!” exclaimed another. “Why did you make us fight? Was it to save your own skin from the Blues?” Marche-a-Terre darted a venomous look at his questioner and struck the ground with his heavy carbine. “Am I your leader?” he asked. Then after a pause he added, pointing to the remains of Hulot’s detachment, “If you had all fought as I did, not one of those Blues would have escaped, and the coach could have got here safely.” “They’d never have thought of escorting it or holding it back if we had let them go by without a fight. No, you wanted to save your precious skin and get out of their hands--He has bled us for the sake of his own snout,” continued the orator, “and made us lose twenty thousand francs in good coin.” “Snout yourself!” cried Marche-a-Terre, retreating three steps and aiming at his aggressor. “It isn’t that you hate the Blues, but you love the gold. Die without confession and be damned, for you haven’t taken the sacrament for a year.” This insult so incensed the Chouan that he turned pale and a low growl came from his chest as he aimed in turn at Marche-a-Terre. The young chief sprang between them and struck their weapons from their hands with the barrel of his own carbine; then he demanded an explanation of the dispute, for the conversation had been carried on in the Breton dialect, an idiom with which he was not familiar. “Monsieur le marquis,” said Marche-a-Terre, as he ended his account of the quarrel, “it is all the more unreasonable in them to find fault with me because I have left Pille-Miche behind me; he’ll know how to save the coach for us.”