ady. Send him forth." And still he kept
his ear to the side post. A moment later he spoke again, also
doubtless in answer to a question from within.

"Nay, have no fear," he said; "once outside he is ours," and he turned
to the other two and gave them some orders which St. Georges could not
overhear. He could see, however; and what he saw was, that under their
superior's directions each of the others drew their heavy dragoon
sabres--for to that branch of the army the Garde de la Poste
belonged--and placed themselves one on either side of the porch.

Then all listened attentively.

A moment later, from the first and top floor, through the open window
from which St. Georges had escaped, they heard the shouts of the man
Andre; and St. Georges heard them, too, and grasped his sword more
firmly, and with them came from the other side of the house a cry from
the woman.

"_Carogne!_" exclaimed the sergeant, "the galley boy is giving
trouble--Andre cannot induce him to descend. Yet, hark! he comes!
listen to his tread on the stairs--he is rushing down. Be ready!" and
as he spoke the two men raised their swords.

Again all heard the voice of Andre shouting within, the woman
screaming, too; the door was fumbled at, and in the still, dim, misty
light St. Georges saw a form rush out, and a minute later fall
shrieking heavily to the ground, cut down by both sabres of the
dragoons.

"We have him! we have him!" the sergeant shouted. "Come forth, man; he
is ours!"

And as he spoke St. Georges leaped into the saddle, knowing that the
time had almost come.

Another moment, and he heard one of the dragoons, who had been bending
over the fallen man, exclaim:

"_Mon dieu!_ What have we done? This is no _galerien_, but Andre
himself!"

"What!" bawled the sergeant. "What! _Mon dieu!_ it is." Then he said
in a horror-stricken hoarse voice, "Is he dead?"

"_Ma foi!_ I fear so. His head is in half," the man replied. And with
a look of terror he addressed his comrade: "That was your stroke, not
mine. I struck him on the shoulder. Thank God, his blood is on your
head!"

"_Fichte!_" exclaimed the second, a man of harder mettle. "What
matters? It is our duty. And the _piege_ was his, not ours. He was a
fool. But where--where is the _galerien_? We must have him!"

"Into the house," exclaimed the sergeant, "into the house! The woman
screams no more--doubtless he has murdered her. In, I say, and seek
for him; scour cellar and garret.