I started to my feet, then instantly sank back again, for the squad was almost upon me. I must get to the house; I must warn M. le Comte; yet to attempt it at this moment was to invite disaster, not only for myself, but for him. I must wait; I must watch my chance; I must get to the house unseen. Dubosq must not suspect our knowledge of his movements. I could picture the fierce joy which filled him at the thought that his hour of vengeance was at hand. Still the squad came forward. At last it halted so close behind me that I might almost have stretched out my hand and touched the nearest man. I crouched low in the seat and sat with bated breath. “You understand,” Dubosq’s voice said, “you are to remain here until you hear the cry of an owl thrice repeated. You will then advance toward the château as quietly as possible and keeping in touch with the other sentries. If any man attempts to leave the house or to enter it, and refuses to halt at your challenge, do not hesitate, but shoot him instantly.” “And the women?” “The women are not to be harmed--that is imperative. They must not escape, but the man who injures them shall answer for it.” “They are aristocrats, like the others,” growled the sentry. “That is true,” agreed Dubosq; “but Citizen Goujon hopes to convert them.” “Pah!” said the fellow contemptuously. “Has one of them ever been converted? Answer me that, citizen!” “Come,” said Dubosq, sharply, “I have given you the orders. See that you obey them. Forward!” The squad moved on past me toward the château, and I cautiously raised my head above the back of the seat and peered around. The sentry had been posted so close to me that I could hear him still growling to himself. “A Septembrist!” I told myself. “A monster! An assassin!” But as I looked at him I could scarcely believe that this was the bloodthirsty ruffian whose voice I had listened to. He stood leaning on his musket, staring toward the château, and a beam of light falling full upon his face revealed a mere youth, with features finely chiselled and the dreamy eyes of a poet. His hair clustered about his face in little curls, his lips were curved and sensitive as any woman’s. I stared at him amazed; then suddenly I understood. This was one of those who fought for an ideal, who fancied that the era of universal brotherhood was at hand, and that the Revolution was to make it possible--one to whom “Liberty, equality, fraternity” was not a mere phrase, but a vision to be realized. I had heard of such, but never until that moment had I believed in their existence. Could it be that after all the Revolution had in it a germ of good, a possibility of light?