examine his pistol. When we came where the fellows had turned, we followed in their track.
The first distant hint of approaching morning caught the tops of the trees above us, turning them from black to a deep chill gray, as we paused to listen. Our pursuit had brought us directly behind the cottage, which now stood about a hundred yards on the right; and then we came upon them—or rather suddenly stopped and crouched down to avoid coming upon them—where they were squatting on the ground with a black iron box between them, and the lantern’s light thrown on the keyhole of the box. Lafleur held the lantern; Pierre’s hand was near the lock, and I presumed—I could not see—that he held some instrument with which he meant to open it. A ring of trees framed the picture, and the men sat in a hollow, well hidden from the path even had it been high day.
The Duke of Saint-Maclou touched my arm, and I leaned forward to look in his face. He nodded, and, brushing aside the trees, we sprang out upon the astonished fellows. For a moment they did not move, struck motionless with surprise, while we stood over them, pistols in hand. We had caught them fair and square. Expecting no interruption, they had guarded against none. Their weapons were in their pockets, their hands busy with their job. They sprang up the next moment; but the duke’s muzzle covered Lafleur, and mine was leveled full at Pierre. A second later Lafleur fell on his knees with a cry for mercy; the little man stood quite still, his arms by his side and the iron box hard
