With cold shuddering I beheld above the crowd the glittering arms of the dragoons, who surrounded, three deep, my beloved uncle’s mill. High above all I saw the mareschale on horseback, surrounded by noblemen; he seemed grave and thoughtful.
“My lord!” I exclaimed, when I reached him.
He turned round on hearing me, looked at me, and pointing with his stick to the mill, said, without changing a feature, “The wretches! Now they are caught.”
“What do you intend doing, my lord?” I asked.
“I have been considering for the last quarter of an hour.”
“Oh! my lord,” I said; “it is true these infatuated men have broken the laws, but truly they are more the objects of your contempt than your wrath. Be magnanimous, my lord, and the transgressors will fall at your feet in repentance, and never again——”
“What!” interrupted the mareschale, “these men are incorrigible. They are rebels, furious, audacious rebels. Am I to let this accursed weed luxuriate until it can perpetrate a second Michelade?”[[2]]
“No, my lord,” I said, seizing his hand, which was hanging down; “you are too just to attribute to these unfortunate persons cruelties which happened nearly a century and a half ago.”
“It is time to set a severe example,” said the mareschale, who to this moment had been undecided. He withdrew his hand, rode a few paces forward without further noticing me, and cried, with a loud voice, “Fire the mill!”
Cold with terror, I staggered after him, seized the reins of his horse, and cried, “For God’s sake mercy, mercy.”