own with a bullet, while he was out shooting, was no doubt
taking aim at him at the time. A man must defend himself! At all events
Chantegreil was a decent fellow; he committed no robbery."

As often happens in such cases, the testimony of this poacher sufficed
to bring other defenders to Miette's aid. Several workmen also professed
to have known Chantegreil.

"Yes, yes, it's true!" they all said. "He wasn't a thief. There are
some scoundrels at Plassans who ought to be sent to prison in his place.
Chantegreil was our brother. Come, now, be calm, little one."

Miette had never before heard anyone speak well of her father. He was
generally referred to as a beggar, a villain, and now she found good
fellows who had forgiving words for him, and declared him to be an
honest man. She burst into tears, again full of the emotion awakened in
her by the "Marseillaise;" and she bethought herself how she might thank
these men for their kindness to her in misfortune. For a moment she
conceived the idea of shaking them all by the hand like a man. But her
heart suggested something better. By her side stood the insurgent
who carried the banner. She touched the staff, and, to express her
gratitude, said in an entreating tone, "Give it to me; I will carry it."

The simple-minded workmen understood the ingenuous sublimity of this
form of gratitude.

"Yes," they all cried, "Chantegreil shall carry the banner."

However, a woodcutter remarked that she would soon get tired, and would
not be able to go far.

"Oh! I'm quite strong," she retorted proudly, tucking up her sleeves and
showing a pair of arms as big as those of a grown woman. Then as they
handed her the flag she resumed, "Wait just a moment."

Forthwith she pulled off her cloak, and put it on again after turning
the red lining outside. In the clear moonlight she appeared to be
arrayed in a purple mantle reaching to her feet. The hood resting on the
edge of her chignon formed a kind of Phrygian cap. She took the flag,
pressed the staff to her bosom, and held herself upright amid the folds
of that blood-coloured banner which waved behind her. Enthusiastic child
that she was, her countenance, with its curly hair, large eyes moist
with tears, and lips parted in a smile, seemed to rise with energetic
pride as she turned it towards the sky. At that moment she was the
virgin Liberty.

The insurgents burst into applause. The vivid imagination of those
Southerners was fired with en