n departed. Later, on the following
morning, he returned, having carefully fulfilled all the commissions
entrusted to him by the Gars. Finding that Marche-a-Terre and
Pille-Miche had not appeared at the cottage, he relieved the
apprehensions of his wife, who went off, reassured, to the rocks of
Saint-Sulpice, where she had collected the night before several piles of
fagots, now covered with hoarfrost. The boy went with her, carrying fire
in a broken wooden shoe.

Hardly had his wife and son passed out of sight behind the shed when
Galope-Chopine heard the noise of men jumping the successive barriers,
and he could dimly see, through the fog which was growing thicker, the
forms of two men like moving shadows.

"It is Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche," he said, mentally; then he
shuddered. The two Chouans entered the courtyard and showed their gloomy
faces under the broad-brimmed hats which made them look like the figures
which engravers introduce into their landscapes.

"Good-morning, Galope-Chopine," said Marche-a-Terre, gravely.

"Good-morning, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre," replied the other, humbly.
"Will you come in and drink a drop? I've some cold buckwheat cake and
fresh-made butter."

"That's not to be refused, cousin," said Pille-Miche.

The two Chouans entered the cottage. So far there was nothing alarming
for the master of the house, who hastened to fill three beakers from his
huge cask of cider, while Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche, sitting on the
polished benches on each side of the long table, cut the cake and spread
it with the rich yellow butter from which the milk spurted as the knife
smoothed it. Galope-Chopine placed the beakers full of frothing cider
before his guests, and the three Chouans began to eat; but from time to
time the master of the house cast side-long glances at Marche-a-Terre as
he drank his cider.

"Lend me your snuff-box," said Marche-a-Terre to Pille-Miche.

Having shaken several pinches into the palm of his hand the Breton
inhaled the tobacco like a man who is making ready for serious business.

"It is cold," said Pille-Miche, rising to shut the upper half of the
door.

The daylight, already dim with fog, now entered only through the
little window, and feebly lighted the room and the two seats; the fire,
however, gave out a ruddy glow. Galope-Chopine refilled the beakers, but
his guests refused to drink again, and throwing aside their large
hats looked at him solemnly. Their gest