“Come, sir,” said he, “let us leap from the back window and flee to the mountains. They will see us, but no matter! These horsemen are always clumsy runners. If you cannot run, I will carry you. They will probably fire at us, but they will miss us.” “And your wife?” asked Lacheneur. The honest mountaineer shuddered; but he said: “She will join us.” Lacheneur took his friend’s hand and pressed it tenderly. “Ah! you are noble people,” he exclaimed, “and God will reward you for your kindness to a poor fugitive. But you have done too much already. I should be the basest of men if I consented to uselessly expose you to danger. I can bear this life no longer; I have no wish to escape.” He drew the sobbing woman to him and kissed her upon the forehead. “I have a daughter, young and beautiful like yourself, as generous and proud. Poor Marie-Anne! And I have pitilessly sacrificed her to my hatred! I should not complain; come what may, I have deserved it.” The sound of approaching footsteps became more and more distinct. Lacheneur straightened himself up, and seemed to be gathering all his energy for the decisive moment. “Remain inside,” he said, imperiously, to Antoine and his wife. “I am going out; they must not arrest me in your house.” As he spoke, he stepped outside the door, with a firm tread, a dauntless brow, a calm and assured mien. The soldiers were but a few feet from him. “Halt!” he exclaimed, in a strong, ringing voice. “It is Lacheneur you are seeking, is it not? I am he! I surrender myself.” An unbroken stillness reigned. Not a sound, not a word replied. The spectre of death that hovered above his head imparted such an imposing majesty to his person that the soldiers paused, silent and awed. But there was one man who was terrified by this resonant voice, and that was Chupin. Remorse filled his cowardly heart, and pale and trembling, he tried to hide behind the soldiers. Lacheneur walked straight to him. “So it is you who have sold my life, Chupin?” he said, scornfully. “You have not forgotten, I see plainly, how often Marie-Anne has filled your empty larder--and now you take your revenge.” The miserable wretch seemed crushed. Now that he had done this foul deed, he knew what treason really was. “So be it,” said M. Lacheneur. “You will receive the price of my blood; but it will not bring you good fortune--traitor!” But Chupin, indignant with himself for his weakness, was already trying to shake off the fear that mastered him. “You have conspired against the King,” he stammered. “I have done only my duty in denouncing you.” And turning to the soldiers, he said: “As for you, comrades, you may rest assured that the Duc de Sairmeuse will testify his gratitude for your services.” They had bound Lacheneur’s hands, and the party were about to descend the mountain, when a man appeared, bareheaded, covered with perspiration, and panting for breath. Twilight was falling, but M. Lacheneur recognized Balstain.