they set out, the National Guard from Fougères brought a Chouan to Hulot; the man was dangerously wounded, and had been found lying exhausted at the foot of the slope, up which his party had made their escape.
"Thanks for this prompt stroke of yours, citizens," said the commandant. "Tonnerre de Dieu! we should have had a bad quarter of an hour but for you. You must look out for yourselves now; the war has broken out in earnest. Good-day, gentlemen!"
Hulot turned to his prisoner.
"What is your general's name?"
"The Gars."
"Who? Marche-à-Terre?"
"No, the Gars."
"And where does the Gars come from?"
To this question the Chasseur du Roi made no reply; his wild, weather-beaten face was drawn with pain; he took his beads and began to mutter a prayer.
"The Gars is that young ci-devant with the black cravat, no doubt. He has been sent over here by the Tyrant and his allies Pitt and Cobourg——"
Here the Chouan, who had so far seemed unconscious of what was going on, raised his head at the words to say proudly:
"Sent by God and the King!"
The energy with which he spoke exhausted his strength. The commandant turned away with a frown. He saw the difficulty of interrogating a dying man, a man, moreover, who bore signs of a gloomy fanaticism in every line of his face. Two of his men stepped forward and took aim at the Chouan; they were friends of the two poor fellows whom Marche-à-Terre had dispatched so brutally with a blow from his whip at the outset, for both were lying dead at the roadside. The Chouan's steady eves did not flinch before the barrels of the muskets that they pointed at him, although they fired close to his face. He fell; but when the men came up to strip the corpse, he shouted again for the last time, "Long live the King!"
