"Yes; horses' feet in the direction of that bivouac."
"You see it was not without a motive that your farmer cut our saddle-girths. Let us be off, my poor baron."
"But if we leave the horse here those who search for us will know the riders are not far off."
"Stop!" said Petit-Pierre; "I have an idea, an Italian idea!--the races of the barberi. Yes, that's the very thing. Do as I do, Monsieur Michel."
"Go on; I obey."
Petit-Pierre set to work. With her delicate hands, and at the risk of lacerating them, she broke off branches of thorn and holly from the neighboring hedge. Michel did the same, and they presently had two thick and prickly bundles of short sticks.
"What's to be done with them?" asked Michel.
"Tear the name off your handkerchief and give me the rest."
Michel obeyed. Petit-Pierre tore the handkerchief into two strips and tied up the bunches. Then she fastened one to the mane, the other to the tail of the horse. The poor animal, feeling the thorns like spurs upon his flesh, began to rear and plunge. The young baron now began to understand.
"Take off his bridle," said Petit-Pierre, "or he may break his neck; and let him go."