r your grandfather will be waiting supper. He
will have to excuse me, though. Come, in with you."

The two shadows leaped lightly up, and one of them took the reins.

"Stop, though," he said suddenly; "this isn't our cart. This will be
brought in stealing. It might be a hanging matter, daddy."

"I'm going to take it to the owner if I'm not much mistaken," said
Peter, as he and Antoine scrambled in at the back.

"But, Pierre Dobree, what of Sara? what of your niece? I must know. If
she is in danger, and through me, I will brave my grandfather's
displeasure, lose my hope of the fortune for which I care so little. I
will, I must find her!"

"You can no more find her than I," said the old man. "One word with your
grandfather, and then I go to seek her."

"What! She has left home then?"

"Only this evening, and for an hour or two; but if my hopes do not play
me false we shall overtake the scoundrel who detains her, and he shall
answer for it with my hand at his throat but I will have her back."

Pierre Dobree was ordinarily a calm, rather rosy, cheerful, high-dried
old Frenchman, quite small and thin, and with a very perceptible stoop;
but Antoine said afterwards that there was a very terrible look in his
face just then--such a look as may have been born, perhaps, in the days
of Terror, when he stood in the crowd beneath the guillotine and saw the
head of Achille Dufarge fall into the sack.

* * * * *

It was many minutes before old Anton Dormeur could clear his mental
vision or recover his senses sufficiently to determine that the girl who
stood beside him touching his shoulder was real flesh and blood; but at
last, with a strong effort, he roused himself to listen; and only half
comprehending her hurried story, rose from the chair into which he had
fallen.

"And you, little one, who are you? what are you?" he asked presently,
without taking his eyes from her face. "Your name is Sara? it must
be--shall be," he exclaimed almost passionately.

"It is," said the girl--"Sara Rondeau."

"Rondeau, Rondeau! where have I heard that?"

"It is my aunt--she is a weaver; we work for you, monsieur. See you not
that this Monsieur Bashley, having a spite against us, and against
monsieur your grandson----"

"Who and what are you?" again said the old man; "you talk as one of
us--speaking of monsieur my grandson. Has he seen you? do you know him?
Your mother never saw him? she was---- Mon Dieu