They say that the foreigners are coming this way, and they bid us fly!"

Simon went to the door. Francoise had spoken the truth. On all the roads and on all the mountain paths crowds were seen of men, women and children.

If the rout of an army is terrible, that of a people is infinitely more so. This flight from home and fireside is sad beyond expression. These peasants were running, carrying on their shoulders all that they held most precious. Their houses had been searched, for these peasants had served in the rising of '92, and they probably had arms. An old man was shot for concealing a pistol. At another place brutes had insulted the women, and burned the cottages deserted by the fugitives. This was the day that Napoleon Bonaparte had replied to the _corps legislatif_, who supplicated him to return to the people their lost liberty: "France is a man!--I am that man--with my will, my fame, and my power!"

The woodcutters now returned, dragging the huge wagon they had dug out of the snow-drifts. Simon rapidly explained to several peasants the preparations he had made, and under his instructions they hastened to remove the wounded from the wagon. It was a terrible sight--eleven out of the twenty-eight were dead. But in fifteen minutes the living were lying on the fresh straw spread in the school-room, and Simon and his wife were going from one to another of these poor sufferers, alleviating their sufferings as far as possible. Suddenly a great noise was heard without, followed by the most profound silence. Simon started.

"What was that!" he asked, quickly.

The door opened, and Michel appeared.

"The Cossacks!" he cried. "Come, Master Simon, come!"

Simon obeyed, signing to his wife to take his place. He went outside, and beheld some twenty men mounted on thin but vigorous-looking horses.

The men were of medium height, bearded like goats and ugly as monkeys.

They wore loose robes fastened into the waists with red scarfs. On their heads were high cylindrical caps. Some wore over their shoulders cloaks of bear skins. Their high saddles formed boxes in which they could pack away their booty. They looked down on the crowd with small, twinkling eyes set far in under bushy brows and low foreheads. At their head was an officer in the Austrian uniform.

The crowd fled to the further end of the open s.p.a.ce, and the women clasped their crying children to their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Simon walked directly toward the officer.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked, politely but firmly.

The officer did not seem to hear him--he was looking intently at the inn. Simon repeated his question, this time in German. The Austrian then concluded to look at him.

"Is this village Leigoutte?" he asked. "And is that your inn?" And the soldier pointed to the inn.

"What business is that of yours?" asked Simon, who by this time had become excessively angry.

"Give my men something to drink."

Simon clenched his hands as he replied:

"I never give anything to the enemies of my country!"

The Cossacks understood him and uttered a groan.

"We shall take it by force, then!" said the officer, spurring his horse toward Simon, but the latter pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the Austrian.

"One step further!" he shouted, "and I will blow out your brains!"

The Austrian pulled up his steed, and saying a few words to his men, they turned their horses and departed.

"We shall see you again!" shouted the Austrian, over his shoulder.

The peasants uttered a shout of joy, but Simon was very thoughtful.

"Why," said he, to himself, "should there be a reconnoissance expressly for this village?"

The men now crowded around Simon.

"You frightened them well!" they said. "How ugly they are!" They laughed, and seemed to think all danger was past.

Simon and Michel exchanged a look, then the former raised his hand to command silence.

"My friends," he said, "they will return, and bring many more with them.

Those among you who are not afraid to fight, may remain with me. But we must see at once about a place of safety for the women and children. It will be easy for twenty or thirty of us to keep these invaders from coming to this point again, for we know each mountain path. We have arms, for I long since concealed one hundred guns in my house, and these mountains--the ramparts of France, shall become inaccessible citadels. The enemy will approach in a compact column; we must send out scouts who will keep us informed. It is too late to-day for the attack to take place. Two of you will go to the neighboring villages and give the alarm. We will meet to-morrow at the Iron Cross. And remember, children, that in '92, as to-day, the invaders threatened France, and your fathers drove them out. May the children of those men be worthy of them!"

"But about the women and children?" asked Michel.

"They must be hidden in the farm-houses up the mountains. The wounded are protected by the code of war. Courage, then, and shout with me Vive la France!"

These words aroused immense enthusiasm for a few minutes.

Simon felt a hand on his; it was Francoise, with her little girl in her arms, and Jacques at her side.

"We shall not leave you, Simon," said his wife. "But I wish to speak to you a moment."

Simon looked at her in surprise. Then turning to Michel, "You will complete the arrangements. Jacques will show you where the arms are stored."

"Rely on us, Simon!" shouted the peasants. "We will do our duty!"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE PAST OF FRANcOISE.

Simon followed his wife into the house. She closed the door behind her.

Simon was struck by the strange expression in her face. Was it anxiety for him that had clouded that placid brow?

"Friend," said Francoise, "you must know all. I saw that Austrian officer from the window, and recognized him--"

"Recognized him!"

"Yes, for the man who dishonored my sister that fatal night of the 16th of May, 1804, at Sachemont, was not alone. He was accompanied by the Count of Karlstein, the man whom you have just seen. I cannot dwell upon the terrors of that night. I escaped--but my poor sister! Nor did I ever speak of that man to you. I felt that Talizac was enough for us to hate."

"Yes, dear, I see; and I, too, have something to tell, for, when after long months in the hospital at Dresden, I was permitted to leave it, I wandered, I know not where; but I reached a hut--it was in February, 1805--I saw a light and knocked. There was no answer, and I opened the door and went in. To my horror, I beheld a woman dead, and heard an infant screaming its heart out."

"Poor little Jacques!" said Francoise, weeping.

"I saw a cup of milk on the table; I gave some to the infant. Presently you came in, and did not seem astonished to find the child in my arms.

The physician you had gone to seek looked at the poor woman, said she was dead, and that he could do nothing. We were left alone together. It seemed as if you trusted me at once. Your hands trembled, and it was I who closed the eyes of the dead. The next day we followed the poor girl to the grave, and when one of the rough peasants who bore the bier on which she lay, asked you who I was, you answered simply, 'A friend!'

"After we returned to the hut, I asked you who the dead girl was, and then you p.r.o.nounced the name of Talizac, and heard that a gentleman of France had conducted himself like a base coward--"

"But an honorable man said to me, 'Shall we repair the crime of another?

Shall we not give this little one a home and a family?' I became your wife, your happy, honored companion, and poor Jacques will never know that he owes his life to a base profligate."