“I, Chante-en-hiver,” replied another peasant, also approaching him.
“How many men are with you, Moustache?”
“One hundred.”
“How many men are with you, Chante-en-hiver?”
“Fifty.”
“One hundred and fifty in all, then?” asked Georges.
“Yes,” replied the two Breton leaders.
“Is that your number, colonel?” asked Cadoudal laughing.
“You are a magician, general.”
“No; I am a poor peasant like them; only I command a troop in which each brain knows what it does, each heart beats singly for the two great principles of this world, religion and monarchy.” Then, turning to his men, Cadoudal asked: “Who commands the advanced guard?”