"M'sieu must lie still," Jean said, when he had effaced every token that the wood-pile had been disturbed. "On no account must m'sieu move or speak. If by chance I should have to go away, m'sieu must wait till nightfall, when the cart will come to take m'sieu on his way."
"But, I say, Jean, you mustn't get into trouble for me," called Roy, his voice sounding muffled.
"Bien, m'sieu. Trust Jean to do his best. Can m'sieu breathe?"
"Rather stuffy, but it's all right."
"Au revoir, m'sieu. I go to the soupente."
Then silence. Jean returned to the cottage, where he rinsed the basin which had been used for dyeing purposes, put things straight, unbolted the front door, and climbed into the soupente, drawing the ladder after him. There he laid himself flat, and was, or pretended to be, sound asleep.
Roy's sleep was no pretence. Despite his hard bed and the stuffiness of the air which he had to breathe, despite fear of gendarmes and risks of discovery, he forgot himself for a couple of hours.
Something roused him then. In a moment he was wide awake, his heart thumping unpleasantly against his side. The gendarmes had come!
Roy could see nothing; he could only hear; and he heard more than might have been expected from his position. The men made a good deal of noise, after the manner of gendarmes; and Roy's senses were quickened by the exigency of the moment.
First they went into the cottage, finding the door on the latch, which fact allayed their suspicions, as Jean had intended. They marched round the room, knocking things about a little; and one of them took a good look at the soupente. But not seeing the ladder, and not really suspecting the fugitives of being here, he did not trouble himself further.