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After the lapse of about half an hour, during which time the usurer and Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked at each other as if they were studying a picture, the coarse, gruff voice of Galope-Chopine was heard saying, in a muffled tone: "There's no longer any danger, Monsieur d'Orgemont. But this time, you must allow that I have earned my thirty crowns."
After running some time on the slope of Saint-Sulpice which overlooks the valley of Couesnon she saw a cow-shed in the distance, and thought it must belong to the house of Galope-Chopine, who had doubtless left his wife at home and alone during the fight.
"Why do you tell things to your wife?" said Marche-a-Terre, roughly. "Besides, cousin, we don't want excuses, we want your axe. You are condemned." At a sign from his companion, Pille-Miche helped Marche-a-Terre to seize the victim. Finding himself in their grasp Galope-Chopine lost all power and fell on his knees holding up his hands to his slayers in desperation.
Pille Miche nudged his comrade by the elbow and showed him d'Orgemont, who was pretending to be asleep; but Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre both knew by experience that no one ever slept by the corner of their fire, and though the last words said to Galope-Chopine were almost whispered, they must have been heard by the victim, and the four Chouans looked at him fixedly, thinking perhaps that fear had deprived him of his senses.
While the widow of Galope-Chopine and her son with his bloody foot stood watching, the one, with a gloomy expression of revenge, the other with curiosity, the curling of the smoke, Mademoiselle de Verneuil's eyes were fastened on the same rock, trying, but in vain, to see her lover's signal.
I can't eat," said Galope-Chopine, anxiously. His wife set another pitcher full of cider before him, but he paid no heed to it. Two big tears rolled from the woman's eyes and moistened the deep furrows of her withered face. "Listen to me, wife; to-morrow morning you must gather fagots on the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, to the right and Saint-Leonard and set fire to them.
"Ho! ho! my gun may miss fire on a duck, but on a Blue, never!" cried Galope-Chopine, nodding his head in sign of satisfaction. Marie examined her guide's face attentively, and found it of the type of those she had just seen. The old Chouan had evidently no more ideas than a child.
"How am I to pay it to you?" asked d'Orgemont. "Your country-house at Fougeres is not far from Gibarry's farm where my cousin Galope-Chopine, otherwise called Cibot, lives. You can pay the money to him," said Pille-Miche. "That's not business-like," said d'Orgemont. "What do we care for that?" said Marche-a-Terre.
The two Chouans entered the courtyard and showed their gloomy faces under the broad-brimmed hats which made them look like the figures which engravers introduce into their landscapes. "Good-morning, Galope-Chopine," said Marche-a-Terre, gravely. "Good-morning, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre," replied the other, humbly. "Will you come in and drink a drop?
He is spending the day in our house," she said, proudly, "as you seem to know." "Thank you, my good woman," replied Hulot. "Forward, march! God's thunder! we've got him," he added, speaking to his men. The detachment followed its leader at a quick step through the path pointed out to them. The wife of Galope-Chopine turned pale as she heard the un-Catholic oath of the so-called Chouan.
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