Some were no doubt busy in
taking care of the wounded in the little village of La Pelerine,
situated on the side of the mountain which looks toward the valley of
Couesnon. Two or three chiefs of what were called the "Chasseurs du
Roi" clustered about Marche-a-Terre. A few feet apart sat the young
noble called The Gars, on a granite rock, absorbed in thoughts excited
by the difficulties of his enterprise, which now began to show
themselves. Marche-a-Terre screened his forehead with his hand from
the rays of the sun, and looked gloomily at the road by which the
Blues were crossing the valley of La Pelerine. His small black eyes
could see what was happening on the hill-slopes on the other side of
the valley.
"The Blues will intercept the messenger," said the angry voice of one
of the leaders who stood near him.
"By Saint Anne of Auray!" exclaimed another. "Why did you make us
fight? Was it to save your own skin from the Blues?"
Marche-a-Terre darted a venomous look at his questioner and struck the
ground with his heavy carbine.
"Am I your leader?" he asked. Then after a pause he added, pointing to
the remains of Hulot's detachment, "If you had all fought as I did,
not one of those Blues would have escaped, and the coach could have
got here safely."
"They'd never have thought of escorting it or holding it back if we
had let them go by without a fight.
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