"By St. Anne of Auray!" asked another, "why did you make us fight? To save your own skin?"
Marche-à-Terre's glance at the speaker was full of malignity; he rapped the butt of his heavy carbine on the ground. "Am I in command?" said he. Then after a pause he went on, "If all of you had fought as I did, not one of the Blues would have escaped," and he pointed to the remnant of Hulot's detachment below, "and perhaps then the coach would have come through as far as here."
"Do you suppose," asked a third speaker, "that the idea of escorting it, or stopping it either, would have crossed their minds if we had let them pass peaceably? You wanted to save your own hide, you that would have it the Blues were not on the march. He must save his own bacon," he went on, turning to the others, "and the rest of us must bleed for it, and we are like to lose twenty thousand francs in good gold coin besides."
"Bacon yourself!" cried Marche-à-Terre, drawing back and bringing his carbine to bear on his adversary. "It's not that you hate the Blues, but that you are fond of money. You shall die without confession, do you hear? A damned rascal that hasn't taken the sacrament this twelvemonth past."
The Chouan turned white with rage at this insult, a deep growl came from his chest as he raised his musket and pointed it at Marche-à-Terre. The young leader rushed between them, knocked the firearms out of their hands by striking up their weapons with the stock of his carbine, and demanded an explanation of the quarrel. The dispute had been carried on in Bas-Breton, with which he was not very familiar.
Marche-à-Terre explained, and ended his discourse with, "It's the more shame to them that bear a grudge against me, my lord Marquis, for I left Pille-Miche behind, and very likely he will keep the coach out of these robbers' clutches." He pointed to the Blues, for these faithful defenders of altar and throne were all brigands and murderers of Louis XVI.
