r that, and choice
morsels, too. But the coach; whose is that?" asked Pille-Miche,
beginning to reflect upon his bargain.

"Mine!" cried Marche-a-Terre, in a terrible tone of voice, which showed
the sort of superiority his ferocious character gave him over his
companions.

"But suppose there's money in the coach?"

"Didn't you say, 'Done'?"

"Yes, I said, 'Done.'"

"Very good; then go and fetch the postilion who is gagged in the stable
over there."

"But if there's money in the--"

"Is there any?" asked Marche-a-Terre, roughly, shaking Marie by the arm.

"Yes, about a hundred crowns."

The two Chouans looked at each other.

"Well, well, friend," said Pille-Miche, "we won't quarrel for a female
Blue; let's pitch her into the lake with a stone around her neck, and
divide the money."

"I'll give you that money as my share in d'Orgemont's ransom," said
Marche-a-Terre, smothering a groan, caused by such sacrifice.

Pille-Miche uttered a sort of hoarse cry as he started to find the
postilion, and his glee brought death to Merle, whom he met on his way.

Hearing the shot, Marche-a-Terre rushed in the direction where he had
left Francine, and found her praying on her knees, with clasped hands,
beside the poor captain, whose murder had deeply horrified her.

"Run to your mistress," said the Chouan; "she is saved."

He ran himself to fetch the postilion, returning with all speed, and,
as he repassed Merle's body, he noticed the Gars' glove, which was still
convulsively clasped in the dead hand.

"Oho!" he cried. "Pille-Miche has blundered horribly--he won't live to
spend his crowns."

He snatched up the glove and said to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who was
already in the coach with Francine: "Here, take this glove. If any of
our men attack you on the road, call out 'Ho, the Gars!' show the glove,
and no harm can happen to you. Francine," he said, turning towards her
and seizing her violently, "you and I are quits with that woman; come
with me and let the devil have her."

"You can't ask me to abandon her just at this moment!" cried Francine,
in distress.

Marche-a-Terre scratched his ear and forehead, then he raised his head,
and his mistress saw the ferocious expression of his eyes. "You are
right," he said; "I leave you with her one week; if at the end of that
time you don't come with me--" he did not finish the sentence, but he
slapped the muzzle of his gun with the flat of his hand. After making
the ge