No, my good friends, I have not betrayed him."
"Very good, that will do, cousin; you can explain all that to God in
course of time."
"But let me say good-bye to Barbette."
"Come," said Marche-a-Terre, "if you don't want us to think you worse
than you are, behave like a Breton and be done with it."
The two Chouans seized him again and threw him on the bench where he
gave no other sign of resistance than the instinctive and convulsive
motions of an animal, uttering a few smothered groans, which ceased
when the axe fell. The head was off at the first blow. Marche-a-Terre
took it by the hair, left the room, sought and found a large nail in
the rough casing of the door, and wound the hair about it; leaving the
bloody head, the eyes of which he did not even close, to hang there.
The two Chouans then washed their hands, without the least haste, in a
pot full of water, picked up their hats and guns, and jumped the gate,
whistling the "Ballad of the Captain." Pille-Miche began to sing in a
hoarse voice as he reached the field the last verses of that rustic
song, their melody floating on the breeze:--
"At the first town
Her lover dressed her
All in white satin;
"At the next town
Her lover dressed her
In gold and silver.
"So beautiful was she
They gave her veils
To wear in the regiment.
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