“As true as that’s the image of Saint-Labre,” said Galope-Chopine, “I have told nothing. Barbette mistook the Fougeres men for the gars of Saint-Georges, and that’s the whole of it.”
“Why do you tell things to your wife?” said Marche-a-Terre, roughly.
“Besides, cousin, we don’t want excuses, we want your axe. You are condemned.”
At a sign from his companion, Pille-Miche helped Marche-a-Terre to seize the victim. Finding himself in their grasp Galope-Chopine lost all power and fell on his knees holding up his hands to his slayers in desperation.
“My friends, my good friends, my cousin,” he said, “what will become of my little boy?”
“I will take charge of him,” said Marche-a-Terre.
“My good comrades,” cried the victim, turning livid. “I am not fit to die. Don’t make me go without confession. You have the right to take my life, but you’ve no right to make me lose a blessed eternity.”
“That is true,” said Marche-a-Terre, addressing Pille-Miche.
The two Chouans waited a moment in much uncertainty, unable to decide this case of conscience. Galope-Chopine listened to the rustling of the wind as though he still had hope. Suddenly Pille-Miche took him by the arm into a corner of the hut.
“Confess your sins to me,” he said, “and I will tell them to a priest of the true Church, and if there is any penance to do I will do it for you.”