No! He would seize the one chance of salvation left him: a forlorn, desperate, perilous chance, but still a chance—the river.
Holding a pistol in either hand, he ran and leaped upon the edge of a little promontory, projecting three yards into the Rhone.
This cape of refuge was formed by the immense trunk of a fallen tree.
The tree swayed and cracked fearfully under Gaston’s weight, as he stood on the extreme end, and looked around upon his pursuers; there were fifteen of them, some on the right, some on the left, all uttering cries of joy.
“Do you surrender?” called out the corporal.
Gaston did not answer; he was weighing his chances. He was above the park of La Verberie; would he be able to swim there, granting that he was not swept away and drowned the instant he plunged into the angry torrent before him?
He pictured Valentine, at this very moment, watching, waiting, and praying for him on the other shore.
“For the last time I command you to surrender!” cried the corporal.
The unfortunate man did not hear; he was deafened by the waters which were roaring and rushing around him.
In a supreme moment like this, with his foot upon the threshold of another world, a man sees his past life rise before him, and seldom does he find cause for self-approval.