"Who are you?" he demanded.
The stranger was old. The hands he raised in a gesture of peace were toil-worn.
"Only a poor peasant, friend," he answered. "I welcome you because the baron's men would not be hunting you were you not his enemies—may his soul rot in hell!"
"You will help us?"
The old man nodded.
"As much as I can. There is an abandoned chateau near here. You can hide there. I shall bring you food."
All but one wing of the ancient edifice to which the peasant took them was in ruins, gutted by fire. It stood high on a hill like a blackened skeleton.
"Once those who lived here were as cruel and proud as Baron Morriere," commented their guide. "Fire made them our equals."
And the part of Mark that was Jacques Rombeau answered:
"Fire will make many equals in the years to come, old man. And swords will help, for a poor man's arm can strike as lusty a blow as any lord's."