a poor comparison.

"There he is, Monseigneur" cried Jean, as he pointed to La Boulaye. "And
yonder are the girl and her husband."

"Ah! The secretary again, eh?" laughed the nobleman, grimly, as he
came nearer. "Ma foi, life must have grown wearisome to him. Secure the
woman, Jean."

Caron stood before him, pale in his impotent rage, which was directed
as much against the peasants who had fled as against the nobles who
approached. Had these clods but stood there, and defended themselves and
their manhood with sticks and stones and such weapons as came to their
hands, they might have taken pride in being trampled beneath the hoofs
of the Seigneurie. Thus, at least, might they have proved themselves
men. But to fly thus--some fifty of them from the approach of less than
a score--was to confess unworthiness of a better fate than that of which
their seigneurs rendered themselves the instruments.

Himself he could do no more than the single shot in his pistol would
allow. That much, however, he would do, and like him whose resources
are reduced, and yet who desires to spend the little that he has to best
advantage, he levelled the weapon boldly at the advancing Marquis, and
pulled the trigger. But Bellecour was an old campaigner, and by an old
campaigner's trick he saved himself at the last moment. At sight of that
levelled barrel he pulled his horse suddenly on to its haunches, and
received the charge in the animal's belly. With a shriek of pain the
horse sought to recover its feet, then tumbled forward hurling the
Marquis from the saddle. La Boulaye had an inspiration to fling himself
upon the old roue and seek with his hands to kill him before they
made an end of himself. But ere he could move to execute his design a
horseman was almost on top of him. He received a stunning blow on the
head. The daylight faded in his eyes, he felt a sensation of sinking,
and a reverberating darkness engulfed him.

CHAPTER III. THE WORD OF BELLECOUR

When La Boulaye recovered consciousness he was lying on his back in the
middle of the courtyard of the Chateau de Bellecour. From a great stone
balcony above, a little group, of which Mademoiselle de Bellecour
was the centre, observed the scene about the captive, who was being
resuscitated that he might fittingly experience the Seigneur's
vengeance.

She had returned from the morning's affair in the park with a conscience
not altogether easy. To have stood by whilst her father