It was indeed as Antoine had said.
The task was certainly not at all to their taste, but they were closely watched by the lieutenant in command, who hoped to receive some substantial reward if the expedition was crowned with success. Antoine, meanwhile, continued his exposition of his hopes and fears.
“Wounded and exhausted as you are,” he was saying to Lacheneur, “you will be in no condition to make a long march in less than a fortnight. Until then you must conceal yourself. Fortunately, I know a safe retreat in the mountain, not far from here. I will take you there to-night, with provisions enough to last you for a week.”
A stifled cry from his wife interrupted him.
He turned, and saw her fall almost fainting against the door, her face whiter than her coif, her finger pointing to the path that led from Saint-Pavin to their cottage.
“The soldiers—they are coming!” she gasped.
Quicker than thought, Lacheneur and the peasant sprang to the door to see for themselves.
The young woman had spoken the truth.
The Montaignac chasseurs were climbing the steep foot-path slowly, but surely.
Chupin walked in advance, urging them on with voice, gesture and example.