He had hardly said the words before the sound of a rapid step was heard, and the young baron rushed into the salon, pale, breathless, covered with mud, dripping with perspiration, and with scarcely breath enough to say:--
"Not a moment to lose! Fly! Escape! They are coming!"
He dropped on one knee, resting one hand on the ground, for his breath failed him, his strength was exhausted. He had done, as he promised Jean Oullier, nearly a mile and a half in six minutes.
There was a moment of trouble and confusion in the salon.
"To arms!" cried the marquis. Springing to his own gun, he pointed to a rack at the corner of the room, where three or four carbines and fowling-pieces were hanging.
The Comte de Bonneville and Pascal, with one and the same movement, threw themselves before Petit-Pierre as if to defend him.
Mary sprang to the young baron to raise him and give him what help he needed, while Bertha ran to a window looking toward the forest and opened it.
Shots were then heard, evidently coming nearer, though still at some distance.
"They are on the Viette des Biques," said Bertha.
"Nonsense!" said the marquis; "impossible they should attempt such a dangerous path!"