a net, "bring me a bit of wood to make a new oar-pin."

"All right," answered Philippe.

There was no tree in the field. The young man bent his steps toward
the park of Valfeuillu, a few rods distant; and, neglectful of
Article 391 of the Penal Code, jumped across the wide ditch which
surrounds M. de Tremorel's domain. He thought he would cut off a
branch of one of the old willows, which at this place touch the
water with their drooping branches.

He had scarcely drawn his knife from his pocket, while looking
about him with the poacher's unquiet glance, when he uttered a low
cry, "Father! Here! Father!"

"What's the matter?" responded the old marauder, without pausing
from his work.

"Father, come here!" continued Philippe. "In Heaven's name, come
here, quick!"

Jean knew by the tone of his son's voice that something unusual had
happened. He threw down his scoop, and, anxiety quickening him, in
three leaps was in the park. He also stood still, horror-struck,
before the spectacle which had terrified Philippe.

On the bank of the river, among the stumps and flags, was stretched
a woman's body. Her long, dishevelled locks lay among the
water-shrubs; her dress--of gray silk--was soiled with mire and
blood. All the upper part of the body lay in shallow water, and