“Their cries,” he said to his two friends, “prove that they are not numerous. We’ll advance at a quick step, and possibly we may be able to reach Ernee without getting them on our backs.”
These words were overheard by one of the patriot conscripts, who stepped from the ranks, and said respectfully:—
“General, I have already fought the Chouans; may I be allowed a word?”
“A lawyer,” whispered Hulot to Merle. “They always want to harangue. Argue away,” he said to the young man.
“General, the Chouans have no doubt brought arms for those escaped recruits. Now, if we try to outmarch them, they will catch us in the woods and shoot every one of us before we can get to Ernee. We must argue, as you call it, with cartridges. During the skirmish, which will last more time than you think for, some of us ought to go back and fetch the National Guard and the militia from Fougeres.”
“Then you think there are a good many Chouans?”
“Judge for yourself, citizen commander.”
He led Hulot to a place where the sand had been stirred as with a rake; then he took him to the opening of a wood-path, where the leaves were scattered and trampled into the earth,—unmistakable signs of the passage of a large body of men.
“Those were the ‘gars’ from Vitre,” said the man, who came himself from Fougeres; “they are on their way to Lower Normandy.”
“What is your name?” asked Hulot.