Day was breaking when the clumsy vehicle reached the village nearest to its island destination. Canolles, feeling that it had ceased to move, passed his head through the little loophole intended to furnish air to those who were free, and conveniently arranged to shut it off from prisoners.
A pretty little village, consisting of some hundred houses grouped about a church on a hillside, and overlooked by a château, was sharply outlined in the clear morning air, gilded by the first rays of the sun, which put to flight the thin, gauzy patches of vapor.
Just then the wagon started on up the incline, and the coachman left the box and walked beside the vehicle.
"My friend," said Canolles, "are you of this province?"
"Yes, monsieur, I am from Libourne."
"In that case you should know this village. What is yonder white house, and those pretty cottages?"
"The château, monsieur," was the reply, "is the manor house of Cambes, and the village is one of its dependencies."
Canolles started back, and his face instantly changed from the deepest red to deathly white.
"Monsieur," interposed Barrabas, whose round eye nothing escaped, "did you hurt yourself against the window?"
"No—thanks," said Canolles, and continued his examination of the peasant. "To whom does the property belong?" he asked.