romance lies buried within the ruins of the chateaux which gave them shelter — Tournebut, Bouvesse, Donnai, Plelan. A world of mystery encompasses the names of their leaders and, above all, those of the women — ladies of high degree and humble peasants alike — often heroic, more often misguided, who supplied the intrigue, the persistence, the fanatical hatred which kept the fire of rebellion smouldering and spluttering even while it could not burst into actual flame. D'Aché, Cadoudal, Frotté, Armand le Chevallier, Marquise de Combray, Mme. Aquet de Férolles — the romance attaching to these names pales beside that which clings to the weird anonymity of their henchmen — "Dare-Death," "Hare-Lip," "Fear-Nought," "Silver-Leg," and so on. Theirs were the hands that struck whilst their leaders planned — they were the screech-owls who for more than twenty years terrorised the western provinces of France and, in the name of God and their King, committed every crime that could besmirch the Cause which they professed to uphold.
Whether they really aimed at the restoration of the Bourbon kings and at bolstering up the fortunes of an effete and dispossessed monarchy with money wrung from peaceable citizens, or whether they were a mere pack of lawless brigands made up of deserters from the army and fugitives from conscription, of felons and bankrupt aristocrats, will for ever remain a bone of contention between the apologists of the old regime and those of the new.
With partisanship in those strangely obscure
