"Peace, my daughter. Have we not sought the protection of God? Have no fear."
"It is not for myself, father."
Madame's voice trembled a little.
"The lambs of the flock are in His special care. See, let us go forward—yonder."
As he spoke Père Mouet pointed to where, on a low hillock, a Calvary had been placed.
Over the head of the rugged rock, which had been hewn into a rough cross, hung a blackened crown of thorns.
Nearer and nearer came the trampling of feet, the sound of singing and shouting. The men of Kérnak had been drinking at the Golden Merman on their way hither.
It was the wine, quite as much as the words of Jean Floessel, which had made them red republicans that night.
Around the foot of the Calvary knelt the little group of fugitives—waiting.
"Aux armes, citoyens."