"Monsieur!" she cried, stepping over to him and striving to interpose between him and the two men.  "Marteau, what would you do?" 

 "My sister—dead in the cottage yonder after—after——" he choked out. He stopped, his fingers twitching.  "My old father! If I served them right I would pitch them into yonder fireplace or torture them, the dogs, the cowards!" 

 "My friend," said the young Countess gently, laying her hand on his arm. 

 Marteau threw up his hands, that touch recalled him to his senses. 

 "I will let them alone for the present," he said.  "Meanwhile——"  He seized the dead man and dragged the body out of sight behind the tables. 

 "Will monsieur give a thought to me?" came another voice from the dim recesses of a far corner. 

 "And who are you?" asked Marteau, lifting the light and staring. 

 "A Frenchman, sir. They knocked me on the head and left me for dead, but if monsieur would assist me I——" 

 Marteau stepped over to him, bent down and lifted him up. He was a stout, hardy looking peasant boy, pale cheeked, with blood clotted around his forehead from a blow that he had received. Feverish fire sparkled in his eyes. 

 "If monsieur wishes help to put these brutes out of the way command me," he said passionately. 

 "We will do nothing with them at present," answered Marteau. 

 "Quick, Laure, the knife," whispered the Englishman. 

 The Frenchman heard him, however, and wheeled around. 

 "Mademoiselle," he cried, "on your honor I charge you not to abuse the liberty I have secured for you and that I allow you." 

 "But, my friends——" 

 "If you had depended on your friends you would even now be——" he paused—"as my sister," he added with terrific intensity. 

 "Your pleasure shall be mine," said the young woman. 

 "If I could have a drink of wine!" said the young peasant, sinking down into a chair. 

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