Martial was contemplating the ruins, not without deep emotion, when he heard a sharp crackling in the underbrush.
He turned; Maurice, Jean, and Corporal Bavois were approaching.
The old soldier carried under his arm a long and narrow package, enveloped in a piece of green serge. It contained the swords which Jean Lacheneur had gone to Montaignac during the night to procure from a retired officer.
“We are sorry to have kept you waiting,” began Maurice, “but you will observe that it is not yet midday. Since we scarcely expected to see you——”
“I was too anxious to justify myself not to be here early,” interrupted Martial.
Maurice shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
“It is not a question of self-justification, but of fighting,” he said, in a tone rude even to insolence.
Insulting as were the words and the gesture that accompanied them, Martial never so much as winced.
“Sorrow has rendered you unjust,” said he, gently, “or Monsieur Lacheneur here has told you nothing.”
“Jean has told me all.”