"My son!"
"What has happened?"
"The Cossacks—I fought for the honor of your sister. Where——" the old man's voice faltered.
"She is dead yonder," answered the son.
"Thank God," came the faint whisper from the father. "Mademoiselle Laure—she—the wagon-train—the castle——"
His voice died away, his eyes closed. Frantically the young man recalled his father to his senses again.
"It's no use," whispered the old man, "a ball in the breast. I am going. What do you here?"
"On the service of the Emperor," answered the young officer. "Father, speak to me!"
"Alas—poor—France," came the words slowly, one by one, and then—silence.
Marteau had seen death too many times not to know it now. He laid the old man's head gently down, he straightened his limbs, he went over to the form of the poor girl. To what horrors she had been subjected—like every other woman in the village—before she died! Like his father, he thanked God that she was dead. He lifted her up tenderly and laid her down on a huge settle by the fireplace. He stood a moment, looking from one to the other. The irreligion of the age had not seized him. He knelt down and made a prayer. Having discharged that duty, he lifted his hands to heaven and his lips moved. Was he invoking a curse upon these enemies? He turned quickly and went out into the night, drawing the door behind him, fastening it as tight as he could.