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 carried before it the broken parties of the Vendéans like the débris upon the bosom of a flooded stream. On towards the village swept the mingled mass, and Margot, stunned and almost stifled, was hurried along with it. All the cottages of the place were speedily set on fire by the ruthless victors, that of our heroine being one of the first to perish. Never again did Margot see her poor old grandmother, or learn for certain of her fate! The church itself, in which numbers of the pursued had taken refuge, was soon in flames.

When at last the tide of battle had ebbed away from the wrecked village, Margot, having marvellously escaped all personal injury, but nearly dead with grief and horror, was free to weep in solitude over the smoking heap which was all that remained of her home. With a burst of agony she buried her face in her hands, and sank almost unconscious upon the ground.

was aroused by a voice that seemed familiar; it was calling "Margot!" She lifted her head. It was La Crosse, who, fearing lest harm might befall his benefactress, had come in search of her. With suddenly renewed sprang to her feet, and was hastening to meet him when she saw him fall. He had been shot by a party of three or four Vendéans, who had caught sight of the detested Republican uniform which he had now re-assumed. Margot rushed to his side; the Vendéans did the same. They were strangers to Margot—men from another village. Two of them, with a rough curse, forced her with them into the wood, whilst another rifled the body.

"Dead!" the girl heard them say.

evening fell, Margot took advantage of the dusk to escape from her captors. With heavy yet eager heart she at once sought the spot where La Crosse had fallen. No trace of his body was to be seen. The heart-broken girl wandered aimlessly on, until, in the neighbourhood of the château, she was stopped by a Republican soldier of ruffianly appearance. "On which side are you?" demanded he, in a fierce tone. "Royalist," murmured Margot, too utterly spent to think of the peril she incurred by such an answer. She was instantly made a prisoner, and passed the night, with many other unfortunates, in an outhouse belonging to the château. At daybreak, after a scanty meal, the party of captives was sent off on the road to Nantes.

will not dwell upon the sadness of Margot's farewell look upon the ruins of her beloved village, or on the miseries of the journey to Nantes, where hooting and reviling greeted the arrival of the hapless Vendéans. Our poor Margot, nearly dropping with fatigue, covered with dust, and at no time of a prepossessing appearance, was singled out as the principal butt of ribaldry and sarcasm.

Several of the prisoners died during the first night in the dungeon of Nantes. In the morning a strange scene was enacted. For the women of the newly-arrived band one chance of life and doubtful liberty remained. Each Republican soldier was permitted to choose from among the condemned one woman, to be acknowledged as his wife. All were chosen but one. Need we say that this one was Margot?