Presently a low exclamation from the priest brought them to a halt.
"Listen," he said in a whisper. "What is that?"
It was a question which grew easier to answer every second. There could be no mistaking the tramp, tramp of many feet, the shouts and cries of many voices.
The mob was on its way to the château.
"Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé,
Centre nous de la tyrannie
L'étendard sanglant est levé....
Aux armes, citoyens, formez vos bataillons;
Marchons, marchons!
Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons."
Nearer and clearer came the sounds, each word distinct as the song rose from many throats in growing tumult.
They learnt their lesson easily, after all, these Breton peasants.
"They are coming this way," said Madame de Quernais quietly.
"Alas! I fear it is true; but they may not see us. The mists protect us."
The wind is rising; it will blow the mists aside."