angry clutch,
some a new musket, others an ancient straightened scythe, gaze
fiercely on the scene from under their broad felts. Now and then a
flight of republican bullets hum about their ears, and they look
anxiously to Their Lady, but that fearless head never bends.

Then the moment arrives, and with a fervent, "God be with you, brave
people," she hurls, by a stirring gesture, the last reserve on to the
fight.

And now he finds himself in the midst of the furious medley, striking
mechanically, his soul away behind on that stone, with her. Presently,
as the frenzy waxes wilder, he is conscious that victory is not with
them, but that they are pressed back and encompassed, and that for
each blue coat cast down amidst the yells and oaths, two more seem to
come out of the rain and smoke; whilst the bare feet and wooden shoes
and the long hair of his peasants are seen in ever-lessening ranks.
And, in time, they find themselves thrown back to the men-hir; she is
there, still calm but ghastly white, a pistol in each hand. Around
her, through the wet smoke, rise and fall with sickening thuds the
clubbed muskets of three or four men, and then one by one these sink
to the ground too. With a wailing groan like a man in a nightmare, he
sees the inevitable end and rushes to place his body before hers. A
bullet shatters his sword-blade; now none are left around them but the
begrimed and sinister faces of their enemies.

As they stand prisoners, and unheeding the hideous clamour, he, with
despair thinking of her inevitable fate at the hands of such victors,
and scarcely daring to look at her, suddenly sees _that_ in her eyes
which fills his soul to overflowing.

"All is lost," she whispers, "and I shall never repay you for all you
have done, cousin!"

The words are uttered falteringly, almost plaintively.

"We are not long now for this world, friend," she adds more firmly.
"Give me your forgiveness."

How often has Adrian heard this dead voice during the strange
vicissitudes of these long, long years! And, hearing it whisper in the
vivid world of his brain, how often has he not passionately longed
that he also had been able to yield his poor spark of life on the last
day of her existence.

For the usual fate of Chouan prisoners swiftly overtakes the surviving
leaders of the Savenaye "band of brigands," as that doughty knot of
loyalists was termed by their arch-enemy, Thureau.

A long journey towards the nearest town, in