urprisingly accurate,"
explained Chamilly.

"A majority of 28, composed as follows:" Breboeuf continued;
"Donnilliere, 83 to 44--majority 39; Petite Argentenaye, 96 to
47;--majority 49; St. Dominique, 11 to 19--majority 8; Misericorde,
majority 47. _Esneval_.--"

"Wait!"

Zotique spoke, and his eyes darkened energetically.

"I cannot guarantee you, Misericorde."

All looked at each other. There was consternation.

"But surely Benoit has reported on that place," said Chamilly.

"In my absence. He has met me as little as possible. But Cuiller was
seen an hour ago _entering the Circuit Court_."

"Traitors!" breathed de la Lande.

"I do not trust this American. Unless I was ever mistaken, he and Benoit
are goods and effects of Libergent, and we must save Misericorde without
letting those know, of perish. Let one go over; you cannot, and I
cannot, nor any of the prominent, but let us send our Francois here, let
him discover how it stands, and be back within two hours, so that we can
work there, if needful, the rest of the night. This is the only
salvation."

"I will go," cried Francois cheerfully, and picking up his hat, started
rapidly away. Josephte came in at the gates as he was passing out; she
bowed to him, and moved by us into the house, wrapped in the composure
of one mourning at heart.

On hurried Francois, blithely unconscious of any dark prospect on his
hopes of Josephte, but in visions, as he walked, of a little snow-white
cottage known to him, with only one window in front, green-shuttered,
but a dear little opening in the attic gable, and a leafy honey suckle
creeping over the door way.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A CRIME!

"The veil of mist that held her eyes was rent
As by a lightning flash...."

--W. KIRBY

An hour passes. The shades draw on and begin to blend hues and forms.
Chrysler moves his deliberative survey over the neat-clipped grass and
the tall hedge, the poplars looking over it from the other side of the
highway, the boughs and trunks of the great triple tree--and the little
pinnacles along the Manor-house. A couple of the visitors along the
paths are discussing the situation with dapper Parisian steps and
gestures.

Suddenly the shades creep perceptibly deeper. The gate rattles. A wild
acting man--it is Benoit in his sky-blue clothes--rushes panting in,
throwing out his arms before him, stumbling and gasping inarticulately
lamentations of anguish. "He is dead; my Go