"Yes, the women; even the old men, even the children."
"Marquis, it may be that the white flag will fall to-day never to rise again. Why do you condemn me to making barren and impotent prayers and vows in its behalf?"
"But just reflect," said the marquis; "suppose a ball were to strike you."
"Oh! do you think my son's cause would be injured if my bloody and bullet-riddled clothing were carried on a pike in front of our battalions?"
"No, no!" cried the marquis, passionately. "I would curse my native soil if the stones themselves did not rise at such a sight."
"Then come with me and let us join our troops."
"But," replied the marquis, with less determination than he had previously shown against Petit-Pierre's entreaties,--as if the idea of being regarded as an invalid had shaken the firmness with which he executed his orders,--"but I promised you should not leave the mill."
"Well, I release you from that promise," said Petit-Pierre; "and I, who know your valor, order you to follow me. Come, marquis, we may still be in time to rally victory to our flag; if not, if we are too late, we can at least die with our friends."
So saying, Petit-Pierre darted through the courtyard and orchard, followed by Bertha and by the marquis, who thought it his duty to renew, from time to time, his remonstrances; although, in the depths of his heart, he was delighted with the turn affairs were taking.
Mary and Rosine remained behind to care for the wounded.