Morgan questioned his companions with his eyes, and their acquiescence was unanimous, though it was with a smile on their lips that they recognized their doom. But that was the way in those strange days. Men went to their death without fear, and they dealt it to others without emotion.
“And now,” asked Montbar, “have you anything further to say?”
“Yes,” replied Morgan, “I have to add that nothing is easier than to procure horses, or even to escape on foot; we are all hunters and more or less mountaineers. It will take us six hours on horse back to get out of France, or twelve on foot. Once in Switzerland we can snap our fingers at citizen Fouché and his police. That’s all I have to say.”
“It would be very amusing to laugh at citizen Fouché,” said Montbar, “but very dull to leave France.”
“For that reason, I shall not put this extreme measure to a vote until after we have talked with Cadoudal’s messenger.”
“Ah, true,” exclaimed two or three voices; “the Breton! where is the Breton?”
“He was asleep when I left,” said Montbar.
“And he is still sleeping,” said Adler, pointing to a man lying on a heap of straw in a recess of the grotto.
They wakened the Breton, who rose to his knees, rubbing his eyes with one hand and feeling for his carbine with the other.
“You are with friends,” said a voice; “don’t be afraid.”