They did not even hear of the little party that had travelled
nearly three leagues in the full light of day, bearing a wounded man
upon a litter.
Among the two thousand peasants who believed that this wounded man was
Baron d'Escorval, there was not one who turned informer or let drop an
indiscreet word.
But on approaching the frontier, which they knew to be strictly guarded,
the fugitives became even more cautious.
They waited until nightfall before presenting themselves at a lonely
inn, where they hoped to procure a guide to lead them through the
defiles of the mountains.
Frightful news awaited them there. The innkeeper informed them of the
bloody massacre at Montaignac.
With tears rolling down his cheeks, he related the details of the
execution, which he had heard from an eyewitness.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew nothing of M. d'Escorval's flight
or of M. Lacheneur's arrest.
But he was well acquainted with Chanlouineau, and he was inconsolable
over the death of that "handsome young fellow, the best farmer in the
country.
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