“The recruits could have skipped like frogs into the woods at any time, and we should never have gone after them, especially if those fellows had fired a single volley,” returned Hulot. “No, no, there’s something behind all this.” Again he turned and looked at La Pelerine. “See!” he cried; “see there!”
Though they were now at a long distance from the fatal plateau, they could easily distinguish Marche-a-Terre and several Chouans who were again occupying it.
“Double-quick, march!” cried Hulot to his men, “open your compasses and trot the steeds faster than that! Are your legs frozen?”
These words drove the little troop into a rapid motion.
“There’s a mystery, and it’s hard to make out,” continued Hulot, speaking to his friends. “God grant it isn’t explained by muskets at Ernee. I’m very much afraid that we shall find the road to Mayenne cut off by the king’s men.”
The strategical problem which troubled the commandant was causing quite as much uneasiness to the persons whom he had just seen on the summit of Mont Pelerine. As soon as the drums of the National Guard were out of hearing and Marche-a-Terre had seen the Blues at the foot of the declivity, he gave the owl’s cry joyously, and the Chouans reappeared, but their numbers were less. Some were no doubt busy in taking care of the wounded in the little village of La Pelerine, situated on the side of the mountain which looks toward the valley of Couesnon. Two or three chiefs of what were called the “Chasseurs du Roi” clustered about Marche-a-Terre. A few feet apart sat the young noble called The Gars, on a granite rock, absorbed in thoughts excited by the difficulties of his enterprise, which now began to show themselves. Marche-a-Terre screened his forehead with his hand from the rays of the sun, and looked gloomily at the road by which the Blues were crossing the valley of La Pelerine. His small black eyes could see what was happening on the hill-slopes on the other side of the valley.
“The Blues will intercept the messenger,” said the angry voice of one of the leaders who stood near him.
“By Saint Anne of Auray!” exclaimed another. “Why did you make us fight? Was it to save your own skin from the Blues?”
Marche-a-Terre darted a venomous look at his questioner and struck the ground with his heavy carbine.