row."

But where should he pass the night? He was in evening dress and
bareheaded; he began to feel cold. The house belonging to the duke in
Montaignac would afford him a refuge.

"I shall find a bed, some servants, a fire, and a change of clothing
there--and to-morrow, a horse to return."

It was quite a distance to walk; but in his present mood this did not
displease him.

The servant who came to open the door when he rapped, was speechless
with astonishment on recognizing him.

"You, Monsieur!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, it is I. Light a good fire in the drawing-room for me, and bring
me a change of clothing."

The valet obeyed, and soon Martial found himself alone, stretched upon a
sofa before the cheerful blaze.

"It would be a good thing to sleep and forget my troubles," he said to
himself.

He tried; but it was not until early morning that he fell into a
feverish slumber.

He awoke about nine o'clock, ordered breakfast, concluded to return to
Sairmeuse, and he was eating with a good appetite, when suddenly:

"Have a horse saddled instantly!" he exclaimed.

He had just remembered the rendezvous with Maurice. Why should he not go
there?

He set out at once, and thanks to a spirited horse, he reached the Reche
at half-past eleven o'clock.

The others had not yet arrived; he fastened his horse to a tree near by,
and leisurely climbed to the summit of the hill.

This spot had been the site of Lacheneur's house. The four walls
remained standing, blackened by fire.

Martial was contemplating the ruins, not without deep emotion, when he
heard a sharp crackling in the underbrush.

He turned; Maurice, Jean, and Corporal Bavois were approaching.

The old soldier carried under his arm a long and narrow package,
enveloped in a piece of green serge. It contained the swords which Jean
Lacheneur had gone to Montaignac during the night to procure from a
retired officer.

"We are sorry to have kept you waiting," began Maurice, "but you will
observe that it is not yet midday. Since we scarcely expected to see
you----"

"I was too anxious to justify myself not to be here early," interrupted
Martial.

Maurice shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"It is not a question of self-justification, but of fighting," he said,
in a tone rude even to insolence.

Insulting as were the words and the gesture that accompanied them,
Martial never so much as winced.

"Sorrow has rendered you unjust," said he, gently, "or M