“Very good; then go and fetch the postilion who is gagged in the stable over there.”
“But if there’s money in the—”
“Is there any?” asked Marche-a-Terre, roughly, shaking Marie by the arm.
“Yes, about a hundred crowns.”
The two Chouans looked at each other.
“Well, well, friend,” said Pille-Miche, “we won’t quarrel for a female Blue; let’s pitch her into the lake with a stone around her neck, and divide the money.”
“I’ll give you that money as my share in d’Orgemont’s ransom,” said Marche-a-Terre, smothering a groan, caused by such sacrifice.
Pille-Miche uttered a sort of hoarse cry as he started to find the postilion, and his glee brought death to Merle, whom he met on his way.
Hearing the shot, Marche-a-Terre rushed in the direction where he had left Francine, and found her praying on her knees, with clasped hands, beside the poor captain, whose murder had deeply horrified her.
“Run to your mistress,” said the Chouan; “she is saved.”