ould stare into her face then, none
knew better than Rosette; but Death was also very near Rosette's beloved
de Marigny, the man who had cared for her and loved her with all the
warmth of his big, generous heart.

"Ah! if my papa de Marigny dies, I may as well die too, Gegi," she
whispered wearily. The yellow mongrel cocked one ear with a rather
doubtful expression. "Well, we must take the risk. If papa de Marigny is
to live, you and I, Gegi, must take him warning!" Rosette cried,
springing to her feet; and Gegi signified his entire approval in a
couple of short barks. "I will take the sheep," his little mistress
murmured; "'tis slower, but they will be so pleased to see them. Poor
Jean Paulet!" she thought, with a faint smile.

Gegi bounded lightly through a gap in the hedge, and dashed up to the
soldiers inquisitively. With an oath, one of the men hurled a stone at
him, which Gegi easily dodged, and another man stretched out his hand
for his musket.

"There are worse flavours than dog's meat," he observed coolly. "Come,
little beast, you shall finish your life gloriously, nourishing soldiers
of the republic!" He placed his gun in position.

"He! you leave my dog alone!" called Rosette sharply, as she stepped
into the roadway. "He has the right to live," she added, as she moved
jauntily up to them. Her pert little face showed nothing of the anguish
in her heart.

"Not if I want him for my supper," observed the soldier, grinning at his
comrades, who changed their position to obtain a better view of the
coming sport.

"But you do not," corrected Rosette. "If you need to eat dog, search for
the dog of an accursed fugitive!"

The men laughed. "How do we know this is not one?" they asked.

"I will show you. He, Gegi!" she called, and the dog came and sat in
front of her. "Listen, Gegi. Would you bark for a monarchy?" The yellow
mongrel glanced round him indifferently. "Gegi!" his mistress called
imperiously, "do you cheer for the glorious republic?" And for answer,
Gegi flung up his head and barked.

"You see?" asked Rosette, turning to the grinning man. "He is your
brother, that little dog. And you may not eat your brother, you know,"
she added gravely.

[Sidenote: "Whose Sheep are those?"]

"He, by the Mass! whose sheep are those?" cried a soldier suddenly.

"They are mine, or rather they are my master's; I am taking them back to
the farm."

"Why, then, we will spare you the trouble. I hope they, too, are