oubard's cheeks, but his brain
and Martin's were active enough.

"What do you think?" he said to his son. "Are they safe at La
Mariniere?"

"I'll wager my wooden leg they are," Martin said cheerfully. "They had a
good start, and that lumbering brute with his big horse would not know
the shortest path. And once with Monsieur Urbain--"

"Ah, poor man! Well, let us go down and look for him, the little uncle.
Ah, Martin, all the pretty girls in the world will take long to comfort
Monsieur Angelot--and as to Mademoiselle Henriette!"

"The gendarme said he might be still alive," said Martin. "See, they are
gone round to him."

"He is dead," said Joubard. "Come, Gigot, you and I must carry him in.
As to you, Tobie, just keep watch on this side with your gun--that
poisonous snake of a Simon is prowling about there. Don't shoot, of
course, but keep him off; don't let him get into the house."

Martin lingered a moment behind his father. "Tobie," he said, "that
Simon has been Monsieur Angelot's enemy all through. I thought I had
finished him with my stick, two or three hours ago, but--"

"I know--I have my master's orders," said Tobie. He smiled, and lifted
his gun to his shoulder.

The sun was rising when they found Monsieur Joseph on his bed of soft
grass and leaves, at the foot of his own old oak just bronzed by the sun
of August and September. Up above the squirrels were playing; they did
not disturb his sleep, though they scampered along the boughs and
squeaked and peeped down curiously. The birds cried and chirped about
him in the opening day; and one long ray of yellow sunshine pierced the
eastern screen of trees, creeping all along up the broad slope where the
autumn crocuses grew, till it laid itself softly and caressingly on the
smiling face turned to meet it once more. The sportsman had gone out for
the last time into his loved fields and woods; and perhaps he would have
chosen to die there, rather than in a curtained room with fresh air and
daylight shut out. No doubt the manner of his death had been terrible;
but the pain was momentary, and he had gone to meet it in his highest
mood, all one flame of indignation against evil, and ready, generous
self-sacrifice. He had died for Angelot, fighting his enemy; he had
carried out his little daughter's words, and the last drop of that good
heart's blood was for Angelot, though indeed his dear boy's enemy was
also the enemy of the cause he loved, to which his life ha