"Ah!" exclaimed the marquis; "did you hear the firing, my girl?" "Yes, father," said Mary; "they are fighting." "Where?" "At the springs of Baugé." "You are sure?" "Yes; the shots came from the marsh." "You see," said the marquis; "the news is precise. Who keeps the gate in your absence?" "Rose Tinguy." "Listen!" said Petit-Pierre. Loud raps were heard upon the gate. "The devil!" cried the marquis; "that's not one of us." They all listened attentively. "Open! open!" cried a voice. "There's not an instant to lose!" "It is his voice!" exclaimed Mary, eagerly. "His voice?--whose voice?" said the marquis. "Yes, I recognize it," said Bertha,--"the voice of young Baron Michel." "What does that cabbage-grower want here?" said the marquis, making a step toward the door as if to prevent his entrance. "Let him come, let him come, marquis!" cried Bonneville. "I'll answer for him; there's nothing to fear." He had hardly said the words before the sound of a rapid step was heard, and the young baron rushed into the salon, pale, breathless, covered with mud, dripping with perspiration, and with scarcely breath enough to say:-- "Not a moment to lose! Fly! Escape! They are coming!" He dropped on one knee, resting one hand on the ground, for his breath failed him, his strength was exhausted. He had done, as he promised Jean Oullier, nearly a mile and a half in six minutes. There was a moment of trouble and confusion in the salon. "To arms!" cried the marquis. Springing to his own gun, he pointed to a rack at the corner of the room, where three or four carbines and fowling-pieces were hanging. The Comte de Bonneville and Pascal, with one and the same movement, threw themselves before Petit-Pierre as if to defend him. Mary sprang to the young baron to raise him and give him what help he needed, while Bertha ran to a window looking toward the forest and opened it. Shots were then heard, evidently coming nearer, though still at some distance. "They are on the Viette des Biques," said Bertha. "Nonsense!" said the marquis; "impossible they should attempt such a dangerous path!" "They are there, father," said Bertha. "Yes, yes," gasped Michel. "I saw them there; they have torches. A woman is guiding them, marching at their head; the general is second." "Oh, that cursèd Jean Oullier! Why isn't he here?" said the marquis. "He is fighting, Monsieur le marquis," said Michel. "He sent me; he couldn't come himself." "He!" exclaimed the marquis. "But I was coming, mademoiselle; I was coming myself. I knew yesterday the château was to be attacked, but I was a prisoner; I got down from a second-story window." "Good God!" cried Mary, turning pale. "Bravo!" exclaimed Bertha. "Gentlemen," said Petit-Pierre, tranquilly, "I think we must decide on a course. Shall we fight? If we do, we must arm ourselves at once, bar the gates, and take our posts. Shall we escape? If so, there is even less time to lose." "Let us fight!" said the marquis.