due time they had a child, and all went on
happily enough, till one day, when of the ripe age
of twenty-one, Martin stole some corn from his
father, and, in fear of punishment, silently
absconded. For eight years Martin Guerre was
dead to his family. They never heard of, or
from, him; letters in those days were few, and
travellers scarce; and Martin Guerre had passed
out of the little world of Artigues as if he had
never been. Suddenly, one day, he reappeared.
As he had been absent for eight years, he was
not quite the same man as when he went away;
but it was he sure enough—the same marks on
his face and hands, the blood-spot in his left
eye, the two tusks in the upper jaw, the broken
nail of the first finger, the three warts on the
right hand, and another on the little finger, as
well as the scar on the right eyelid, and the pit
which an ulcer had left in his face; signs by which
all men might have known Martin Guerre among
a thousand. Besides, when he spoke to Bertrande
de Rols, the wife, he knew all the secrets lying
between them; who the wedding guests had
been, where a certain suit was, or ought to be,
of which Bertrande herself knew nothing;
with some other small mysteries nearer and
dearer still. Bertrande had not a doubt that
this was Martin's very self: nor had her own
immediate relations, nor had his uncle, nor his
four sisters. The lost was certainly found, the
prodigal publicly repentant, and all Artigues
rejoiced with the pretty young wife at the return
of her vagrant. So the matter stood for three
years; two children were born to the pleasant
couple, and though they were strangely unlike
Sanxi, Martin's first child, no one thought any
the worse of them or their mother for that. But
at last, a little, half-inarticulate whisper got
abroad, which soon swelled into a loud and
angry cry, and the whisper was: "This is not
Martin Guerre, but Arnauld du Tilh." The
Martin of the past, said some, was taller and
darker, of more slender build, bow-backed, high-
shouldered, with a cleft in his chin, and a large
and flat snub nose; while the Martin of the
present, for all his personal marks, had none
of these more important characteristics; and
especially, his nose was neither large, nor flat,
nor snub. When the sluice was once opened,
the waters rushed in. All sorts of differences
and discrepancies were seen and commented on;
and, at last, the cry grew so loud and fierce,
that poor Bertrande, who had been the last to
give in to the storm, was forced to bow to it.
She was made to undertake a prosecution
against the man who, for three years, had been
to her as Martin Guerre, citing him to appear
as Arnauld du Tilh, to answer to the charge of
false personation—with other crimes yet more
grave and serious. Many witnesses were called
on this strange trial: some for, more against,
the identity of Arnauld du Tilh with Martin
Guerre. One said that Martin had been
notoriously skilful in certain games, of which
Arnauld knew nothing; another—this was Jean
Espagnol, landlord of a little inn not far
distant—said that Arnauld had confessed to him
that he was not Martin Guerre at all, but only
Arnauld du Tilh, beseeching him not to betray
him, Arnauld adding that Martin had made over
to him all his goods and his rights: whereat
Bertrande grew red and bridled. A third
said that he had known from the first that
the accused was Arnauld du Tilh, and not
Martin Guerre, but that he had had a sign not
to betray him; so said another, adding that
he, the accused, had given him two handkerchiefs
for his brother, Jean du Tilh. A soldier,
newly arrived from Rochefort, accompanied by
two other witnesses, deposed that the true
Martin Guerre was in Flanders, with a wooden
leg in place of the one he had lost before St.
Quentin. Others said that Martin was a
Biscayan, and could speak the Biscayan dialect, of
which Arnauld was profoundly ignorant; and a
few called the attention of the judge to the
striking difference between Sanxi, the true
Martin's acknowledged child, and the two infants
born of the false. On the other hand, Martin's
uncle and four sisters testified in Arnauld's
favour, and swore positively that he was Martin
Guerre and none other, and that the various
witnesses against his identity were mistaken, or
suborned. In this manner the excitement was
kept up, and public opinion very fairly divided,
for some time; when suddenly the true Martin
Guerre came upon the scene, and complicated
matters still more. For Arnauld was not to be
outwitted easily. He turned round against Martin,
and denounced him as the impostor; and
for a time justice was undecided as to the real
criminal. But proofs were too strong. The
few dear secrets by which Arnauld had been
helped to win pretty Bertrande, Martin
confessed he had confided to him; also the secret
of those white-lined blue breeches in the chest,
of which Bertrande herself knew nothing, and
the knowledge of which had seemed to her so
conclusive. The game was up. Martin was
immensely offended with his friends, and grievously
indignant that his wife had been deceived; the
law was sharp in those days, and neither Martin
nor the law understood much of mercy. Arnauld
du Tilh was convicted of perjury and imposture,
and these were crimes of which men were
jealous. Wherefore he was sentenced to do
penance, standing in a white shirt, bareheaded
and barefooted, having a rope round his neck
and a lighted taper in his hand, thus to ask
pardon of God, the king, and of justice, also of
Martin Guerre, and Bertrande de Rols, his wife;
after which the executioner was to lead him
through the most public streets and roads about
Artigues, and then he was to be hung up by the
cord round his neck on a gibbet erected before
Martin's house. And when he had hung long
enough he was to be cut down, and his
dishonoured carcase burnt. His one surviving
child by Bertrande was to inherit all his goods:
which, however, were not many. Arnauld du
Tilh played with edged tools, and he cut his
hands grievously in the process.

In 1649 died Lancelot le Moine, leaving his
three children, Pierre, Jacques, and Louis, under