assed.
Monsieur Joseph glanced sharply that way, but saw nothing, and called
the dog to follow him, walking on a little more quickly.

"He will go straight to La Mariniere," he was saying to Riette, "stay
twenty minutes or so with his mother, and be back at Les Chouettes in
less than an hour"--a piece of information not lost on Simon, who
climbed down carefully from his tree, looked to his carbine, and
chuckled as he walked slowly on towards La Mariniere.

"Nothing in the world like patience," he said to himself. "Monsieur le
General ought to double my reward for this. I was right from the
beginning; that old devil of a Chouan had the boy hidden in that
robber's den of his. The fellows thought I was wasting my time and
theirs. They didn't like being half starved and catching cold in the
woods. I have had all the trouble in the world to hold them down to it.
But what does it matter, so that we catch our game after all! I must
choose a good place to drop on the youngster--lucky for me that he
couldn't live without seeing his mother. Is he armed? Never mind! I must
be fit to die of old age if I can't give an account of a boy like that.
His mother, eh? Why did his father go to Paris, if they knew he was
here? Perhaps they thought it wiser to keep the good news from Monsieur
Urbain; these things divide families. They let him go off on a
wild-goose chase after a pardon or something. Well, so that I catch him,
tie him up out of the General's way, get my money, start off to Paris to
see my father, and--perhaps--never come back--for this affair may make
another department pleasanter--"

So ruminated Simon, as he strolled through the lanes in the starlight,
following, as he supposed, in the footsteps of Angelot, and preparing to
lie in wait for him at some convenient corner on his return.

But when his uncle and cousin left him, disappearing into the shadows,
Angelot leaped up on the bank and stood for a minute or two gazing
across at Lancilly. To watch till her shadow passed by one of those
lighted windows--if not to climb to some point where he might see her,
herself, without breaking his word to her father and attempting to speak
to her--it might cost an extra half-hour and Uncle Joseph's displeasure,
perhaps. But after all, what was leaving all the rest of the world
compared with leaving her, Helene, and practically for ever? His gentle,
frightened love, to whom he had promised all the strength and protection
he had to gi