His voice was sad, but it was determined.

"My son!" exclaimed M. d'Escorval; "unfortunate child!--it is to certain
death that you are marching--to certain death."

"All the more reason that I should not break my word, father."

"And your mother, Maurice, the mother whom you forget!"

A tear glistened in the young man's eye.

"My mother," he replied, "would rather weep for her dead son than
keep him near her dishonored, and branded with the names of coward and
traitor. Farewell! my father."

M. d'Escorval appreciated the nobility of soul that Maurice displayed
in his conduct. He extended his arms, and pressed his beloved son
convulsively to his heart, feeling that it might be for the last time.

"Farewell!" he faltered, "farewell!"

Maurice soon rejoined his comrades, whose acclamations were growing
fainter and fainter in the distance; but the baron stood motionless,
overwhelmed with sorrow.

Suddenly he started from his revery.

"A single hope remains, Abbe!" he cried.

"Alas!" murmured the priest.