posted in the street, according to the
instructions they had received from Peter Dobree. The old weaver had not
counted on such a success, but he had actually driven Antoine home in
the very cart which was to have carried away the plunder, after having
conveyed the young man to some place of imprisonment, where he might
have died before aid could reach him.

The first thing that Antoine saw clearly, when they had all got into the
house again, was his grandfather carrying a woman in his arms. The old
man had darted down the stairs at the moment Bashley fired his pistol;
but Sara had fainted. Poor child, she had been long without food, and
her strength gave way amidst that awful scene.

Arrived at the door of the room, the second thing Antoine saw was that
this was the very girl whom he had gone out to seek. As she lay there in
the great leathern chair, with a wan face and closed eyes, a keen
anguish wrung the lad's heart--anguish not unmingled with utter
amazement, for there, bending over her and kissing her hands, which he
held gently to his breast, was the proud old man, who had so rarely
displayed emotion.

Antoine covered his face with his hands, for his head began to reel. So
Peter Dobree found him standing outside the half-open door, when he came
panting up.

"Why, what's the matter, boy? you're not wounded surely--say?" asked the
old foreman anxiously.

Antoine pointed to the scene within the room, and Peter stooped down and
peered in--well he might. Anton Dormeur was on his knees beside the
child, moistening her lips with brandy from a teaspoon (it was a spoon
that had fallen from her dress, but he knew nothing of that, for he
found it on the floor without thinking how it came there). He spoke
encouraging words to her, talked to her as men talk to babies; touched
her forehead with his fingers, and took up one of her long fair tresses
to press it to his lips.

Presently she sighed heavily, and opened her great eyes upon him, then
flushed, drew herself further back in the chair, and began to cry.

"Pierre--Pierre Dobree!" shouted the old man, striding to the door, "he
should be here; where is he?"

"Here am I," said Peter, suddenly confronting him, and drawing Antoine
into the room, all grimed and torn, and smirched with mud, as he was.

"What is the meaning of that?" said old Dormeur, glaring into Peter's
eyes, and laying a grip upon his shoulder that must have left a bruise
there.

"The meaning of _t