up which his comrades had escaped, and where he had fallen from
weakness.

"Thanks for your help, citizens," said the commandant. "God's thunder!
if it hadn't been for you, we should have had a pretty bad quarter of
an hour. Take care of yourselves; the war has begun. Adieu, friends."
Then, turning to the prisoner, he asked, "What's the name of your
general?"

"The Gars."

"Who? Marche-a-Terre?"

"No, the Gars."

"Where does the Gars come from?"

To this question the prisoner, whose face was convulsed with
suffering, made no reply; he took out his beads and began to say his
prayers.

"The Gars is no doubt that young /ci-devant/ with the black cravat,
--sent by the tyrant and his allies Pitt and Coburg."

At that words the Chouan raised his head proudly and said: "Sent by
God and the king!" He uttered the words with an energy which exhausted
his strength. The commandant saw the difficulty of questioning a dying
man, whose countenance expressed his gloomy fanaticism, and he turned
away his head with a frown. Two soldiers, friends of those whom
Marche-a-Terre had so brutally killed with the butt of his whip,