“But suppose the Blues shoot you?”
He answered by letting his arms drop at his sides, as if regretting the poverty of the offering he should thus make to God and the king.
“What will become of me?” exclaimed the young girl, sorrowfully.
Marche-a-Terre looked at her stupidly; his eyes seemed to enlarge; tears rolled down his hairy cheeks upon the goatskin which covered him, and a low moan came from his breast.
“Saint Anne of Auray!—Pierre, is this all you have to say to me after a parting of seven years? You have changed indeed.”
“I love you the same as ever,” said the Chouan, in a gruff voice.
“No,” she whispered, “the king is first.”
“If you look at me like that I shall go,” he said.
“Well, then, adieu,” she replied, sadly.
“Adieu,” he repeated.