His aim was true. The officer swayed in his saddle, bent forward, then rolled off his horse to the ground, shot through the heart. But, before this had happened, there was another explosion. The assassin had raised the pistol to his head and fired the second barrel. He dropped to the ground and lay huddled up beside his victim. At the same moment, the foremost trooper rode up and dismounted to examine the body of his officer. He was stone dead.
The villagers crowded round the other man. He moved slightly. St. Just bent over him. The wounded Frenchman murmured the words, "May the good God forgive my sin;" then a shiver passed through his frame and he was dead. St. Just examined the man's features by the lantern's light, and was shocked to recognize in them Tremeau, the man of whom he and his wife had but now been talking.
The other soldiers had now come up, and the sergeant dismounted and proceeded to search the body. There was nothing on him, but the rags that covered him.
The sergeant scratched his head and seemed perplexed. How to remove two bodies on the high road with no proper means of transport, and whither he should take them, required deliberation.
He was considerably relieved, accordingly, when a short, broadset man, with gray whiskers and a florid face, and dressed like a country gentleman, came up. He had half a dozen greyhounds with him. The villagers made way for him and touched their caps respectfully.
"It is the squire, a magistrate," St. Just muttered to the Sergeant; "He will see to this business."
"Hullo! neighbors, what's the matter?" asked the squire.
He spoke in a sharp, jerky manner, with a strong Sussex intonation. Provincialisms were more marked then, than in these railroad days.
St. Just who had been the nearest witness to the tragedy, told the magistrate what had occurred, omitting however, the fact of Tremeau's having handed him the packet, for no one had seen the transfer.
"The damnable villain!" was the squire's comment, when St. Just had finished. "Thank God, we have done with these murderous French at last. Boney has been so soundly thrashed, that he will never work more mischief." Which showed that the squire did not excel in prophecy. But the villagers held the same opinion. "You're right there, Squire; we've done with Boney at last, but he's took a deal of doing," assented one, who seemed to take the lead. The others sent up a little cheer, but the grim sergeant only nodded.