bout them, or clipped their
clothing.

Another fugitive passed them and escaped, and then yet another. It was
evident that their task was not yet done, and they would not leave,
although the fire poured upon them, still increased in heat and the
bullets came in showers.

Presently the attack seemed to veer away from them somewhat, as if the
attention of the enemy were turned elsewhere, and Paul, who was at the end
of the line, crept forward a little in the thicket. The fever was still
burning in his veins and he was anxious to see what lay in front of him.
He did not hear the warning cries of his comrades, or, if hearing, he did
not heed them. He was still burning with the desire to see what lay there
in the depths of the forest. Paul, the scholar, the thinker, the future
statesman, had become transformed. In such a surcharged atmosphere he,
too, had turned into the primitive man, the fighter, the man who looks
upon every other man not proven a friend, as his natural enemy. The
bullets had ceased for the time being to whistle above his head and to
strike up the earth about him. He became conscious once more of the cannon
shots, shrieking over him, and the crash of the rifle fire came from right
and left.

A stick broke under Paul and he heard a shout in front of him. The shout
was so fierce, so fully charged with malice, that he sprang to his feet as
if he had been propelled by an electric shock. He stood face to face with
Don Francisco Alvarez, the plotter, the rebel, and leader of the attacking
army, a wild and terrible figure, clothes torn, bleeding from wounds, but
animated now by a savage joy. His pistol was leveled at the surprised
youth, and the next moment the deadly bullet would have been sped, but a
tall black-robed figure rose up from the bushes and threw Alvarez back.

"Francisco Alvarez, thou hast done crime enough already!" exclaimed the
priest.

Alvarez regained his balance, cast one look of hate at the man who had
intervened, and cried:

"Ha! it is you, priest, who have come in my way once more! Then go the way
of martyrdom!"

Turning his pistol he fired the bullet full into the black-robed chest,
and Father Montigny fell dying.

Paul stood still, unable to move. Every muscle in him was paralyzed by
this deed which seemed to him not murder alone, but sacrilege. Of all the
events of that terrible night this was the worst. But a man behind Paul,
retained every faculty, alive and alert. Up rose Sh