e they stood crowded together in
utter darkness and stillness, unless, as Genifrede feared, the beating
of her heart might be heard above the hum of the mosquito, or the
occasional rustle of the foliage.

The approaching troop came on, tramping, and sometimes singing and
shouting. Those in the covert knew not whether most to dread a shouting
which should agitate their horses, or a silence which might betray a
movement on their part. This last seemed the most probable. The noise
subsided; and when the troop was close at hand, only a stray voice or
two was singing. They had with them two or three trucks, drawn by men,
on which were piled barrels of ammunition. They were now very near.
Whether it was that Therese, in fear of her infant crying, pressed it so
close to her bosom as to awaken it, or whether the rumbling and tramping
along the road roused its sleeping ear--the child stirred, and began
what promised to be a long shrill wawl, if it had not been stopped. How
it was stopped, the trembling, sickening mother herself did not know.
She only knew that a strong hand wrenched the child from her grasp in
the black darkness, and that all was still, unless, as she then and ever
after had a shuddering apprehension, there was something of a slight
gurgle which reached her strained ear. Her own involuntary moan was
stopped almost before it became a sound--stopped by a tap on the
shoulder, whose authoritative touch she well knew.

No one else stirred for long after the troop had passed. Then Toussaint
led his wife's horse down into the road again, and the party resumed
their march as if nothing had happened.

"My child!" said Therese, fearfully. "Give me my child!" She looked
about, and saw that no one seemed to have the infant.

"I will not let it cry," she said. "Give me back my child!"

"What is it?" asked Papalier, coming beside her horse. She told her
grief, as she prepared to spring down.

"No, keep your seat! Don't get down," said he, in a tone she dared not
disobey. "I will inquire for the child."

He went away, and returned--without it. "This is a sad thing," said he,
leading her horse forward with the rest. "No one knows anything about
the poor thing. Why did you let it go?"

"Have you asked them all? Who snatched it from me? Oh, ask who took
it! Let me look for it. I will--I will--"

"It is too late now. We cannot stop or turn back. These sad accidents
will happen at such times."

"L