"Yes, my friend," whimpered La Vigne. "I saw him through my window
when the alarm was given. He was doubtless coming to save us all, for
an officer was with him. Jules Martin's thatch was just fired. It was
bright as sunrise against the hill, and the English saw our Laurent
and his officer, no doubt, for they shot them down, and I saw it
through my back window."

The miller sunk to his knees, and set the candle on the floor; La
Vigne approached and mingled night-cap tassels and groans with him.

"Oh, my son! And I quarreled with thee, Guillaume, about a pig, and
made the children unhappy."

"But I was to blame for that, Pierre," wept La Vigne, "and now we have
neither pig nor son!"

"Perhaps Montgomery's men have scalped him;" the miller pulled the
night-cap from his own head and threw it on the floor in helpless
wretchedness.

La Vigne uttered a low bellow in response, and they fell upon each
other's necks and were about to lament together in true Latin fashion,
when the wife of Montcalm's officer called to them.

She stood out from the shadow of the stone column, dead to all
appearances, yet animate, and trying to hold up Angèle whose whole
body lapsed downward in half unconsciousness. "Bring water," demanded
Madame De Mattissart.