ot
keep that from me--rather than expose me to become a traitor and a
coward?" And the soldier shuddered, as he repeated: "The galleys!"--and,
bending down his head, remained mute, pensive, withered, as it were, by
those blasting words.

"Yes, to enter an inhabited place by night, in such a manner, is what the
law calls burglary, and punishes with the galleys," cried Agricola, at
once grieved and rejoicing at his father's depression of mind--"yes,
father, the galleys, if you are taken in the act; and there are ten
chances to one that you would be so. Mother Bunch has told you, the
convent is guarded. This morning, had you attempted to carry off the two
young ladies in broad daylight, you would have been arrested; but, at
least, the attempt would have been an open one, with a character of
honest audacity about it, that hereafter might have procured your
acquittal. But to enter by night, and by scaling the walls--I tell you,
the galleys would be the consequence. Now, father, decide. Whatever you
do, I will do also--for you shall not go alone. Say but the word, and I
will forge the hook for you--I have here hammer and pincers--and in an
hour we will set out."

A profound silence followed these words--a silence that was only
interrupted by the stifled sobs of Frances, who muttered to herself in
despair: "Alas! this is the consequence of listening to Abbe Dubois!"

It was in vain that Mother Bunch tried to console Frances. She was
herself alarmed, for the soldier was capable of braving even infamy, and
Agricola had determined to share the perils of his father.

In spite of his energetic and resolute character, Dagobert remained for
some time in a kind of stupor. According to his military habits, he had
looked at this nocturnal enterprise only as a ruse de guerre, authorized
by his good cause, and by the inexorable fatality of his position; but
the words of his son brought him back to the fearful reality, and left
him the choice of a terrible alternative--either to betray the confidence
of Marshal Simon, and set at naught the last wishes of the mother of the
orphan--or else to expose himself, and above all his son, to lasting
disgrace--without even the certainty of delivering the orphans after all.

Drying her eyes, bathed in tears, Frances exclaimed, as if by a sudden
inspiration: "Dear me! I have just thought of it. There is perhaps a way
of getting these dear children from the convent without violence."

"How so, mot