Bewildered by these violent adjurations, and urged on by the instinct of self-preservation, so powerful in every human heart, Lacheneur stepped out upon the threshold.
The night was very dark, and a chilling fog intensified the gloom.
“See, Madame,” said the poor fugitive gently, “how can I find my way through these mountains, which I do not know, and where there are no roads—where the foot-paths are scarcely discernible.”
With a quick movement Balstain’s wife pushed Lacheneur out, and turning him as one does a blind man to set him on the right track:
“Walk straight before you,” said she, “always against the wind. God will protect you. Farewell!”
He turned to ask further directions, but she had re-entered the house and closed the door.
Upheld by a feverish excitement, he walked for long hours. He soon lost his way, and wandered on through the mountains, benumbed with cold, stumbling over rocks, sometimes falling.
Why he was not precipitated to the depths of some chasm it is difficult to explain.
He lost all idea of his whereabouts, and the sun was high in the heavens when he at last met a human being of whom he could inquire his way.
It was a little shepherd-boy, in pursuit of some stray goats, whom he encountered; but the lad, frightened by the wild and haggard appearance of the stranger, at first refused to approach.