“Pille-Miche here could trick Saint Peter and steal the keys of Paradise,” said the rector, slapping that worthy on the shoulder. “If it hadn’t been for him, the Blues would have intercepted us.” Then, noticing the lady, the abbe went to speak to her apart. Marche-a-Terre, who had meantime briskly opened the boot of the cabriolet, held up to his comrades, with savage joy, a bag, the shape of which betrayed its contents to be rolls of coin. It did not take long to divide the booty. Each Chouan received his share, so carefully apportioned that the division was made without the slightest dispute. Then Marche-a-Terre went to the lady and the priest, and offered them each about six thousand francs. “Can I conscientiously accept this money, Monsieur Gudin?” said the lady, feeling a need of justification. “Why not, madame? In former days the Church approved of the confiscation of the property of Protestants, and there’s far more reason for confiscating that of these revolutionists, who deny God, destroy chapels, and persecute religion.” The abbe then joined example to precept by accepting, without the slightest scruple, the novel sort of tithe which Marche-a-Terre offered to him. “Besides,” he added, “I can now devote all I possess to the service of God and the king; for my nephew has joined the Blues, and I disinherit him.” Coupiau was bemoaning himself and declaring that he was ruined. “Join us,” said Marche-a-Terre, “and you shall have your share.” “They’ll say I let the coach be robbed on purpose if I return without signs of violence.” “Oh, is that all?” exclaimed Marche-a-Terre. He gave a signal and a shower of bullets riddled the turgotine. At this unexpected volley the old vehicle gave forth such a lamentable cry that the Chouans, superstitious by nature, recoiled in terror; but Marche-a-Terre caught sight of the pallid face of the silent traveller rising from the floor of the coach. “You’ve got another fowl in your coop,” he said in a low voice to Coupiau. “Yes,” said the driver; “but I make it a condition of my joining you that I be allowed to take that worthy man safe and sound to Fougeres. I’m pledged to it in the name of Saint Anne of Auray.” “Who is he?” asked Pille-Miche. “That I can’t tell you,” replied Coupiau. “Let him alone!” said Marche-a-Terre, shoving Pille-Miche with his elbow; “he has vowed by Saint Anne of Auray, and he must keep his word.” “Very good,” said Pille-Miche, addressing Coupiau; “but mind you don’t go down the mountain too fast; we shall overtake you,--a good reason why; I want to see the cut of your traveller, and give him his passport.” Just then the gallop of a horse coming rapidly up the slopes of La Pelerine was heard, and the young chief presently reappeared. The lady hastened to conceal the bag of plunder which she held in her hand.