making the descent in safety a few
moments later?"

The old soldier was too shrewd not to understand the whole import of
this insulting question.

The sorrow and indignation aroused within him gave him strength to free
himself from the hands of his captors.

"_Mille tonnerres_!" he exclaimed; "so I pass for a traitor, do I! No,
it is impossible--listen to me."

Then rapidly, but with surprising clearness, he related all the details
of his escape, his despair, his perilous situation, and the almost
insurmountable obstacles which he had overcome. To hear was to believe.

The men--they were, of course, the retired army officers who had
been waiting for the baron--offered the honest corporal their hands,
sincerely sorry that they had wounded the feelings of a man who was so
worthy of their respect and gratitude.

"You will forgive us, Corporal," they said, sadly. "Misery renders men
suspicious and unjust, and we are very unhappy."

"No offence," he growled. "If I had trusted poor Monsieur d'Escorval, he
would be alive now."

"The baron still breathes," said one of the officers.

This was such astounding news that Bavois was utterly confounded for a
moment.

"Ah! I will give my right hand, if necessary, to save him!" he
exclaimed, at last.

"If it is possible to save him, he will be saved, my friend. That worthy
priest whom you see there, is an excellent physician. He is examining
Monsieur d'Escorval's wounds now. It was by his order that we procured
and lighted this candle, which may bring our enemies upon us at any
moment; but this is not a time for hesitation."

Bavois looked with all his eyes, but from where he was standing he could
discover only a confused group of moving figures.

"I would like to see the poor man," he said, sadly.

"Come nearer, my good fellow; fear nothing!"

He stepped forward, and by the flickering light of the candle which
Marie-Anne held, he saw a spectacle which moved him more than the
horrors of the bloodiest battle-field.

The baron was lying upon the ground, his head supported on Mme.
d'Escorval's knee.

His face was not disfigured; but he was pale as death itself, and his
eyes were closed.

At intervals a convulsive shudder shook his frame, and a stream of blood
gushed from his mouth. His clothing was hacked--literally hacked
in pieces; and it was easy to see that his body had sustained many
frightful wounds.

Kneeling beside the unconscious man, Abbe Midon, with ad