Ralph had noticed a cottage, standing by itself at the edge of a wood, at some little distance from the bivouac of the night of the 30th of November; and had stopped for a moment, and asked a few questions of the woman who lived there. She had appeared a kind-hearted woman, full of hatred for the invader; and had two sons in the Mobiles, who had marched north when Paris was first threatened, and who were now besieged there. For this cottage Ralph determined to make, in order--if the owners would receive him--to take shelter in the house; otherwise, to find a refuge in the wood, itself, where he doubted not that they would assist him to lie hid for a few days. He had no great fear of a very active search being made for fugitives, at present, as the Prussians had only driven back two divisions of the French army; and had, Ralph believed, plenty of work on their hands, for some time.
It was fortunate for Ralph that he had studied the ground so carefully; for he soon came upon the road, and the stars--which were shining brightly--gave him his direction and bearings. The battle had extended over the whole of this ground. Many times Ralph could hear groans; and saw, in places, dark forms thickly scattered over the ground--showing where a stand had been made, or where a regiment had lain exposed, for hours, to an artillery fire.
The distance was considerable to the place Ralph had marked out for himself. Eight miles, at least, he thought; for it was away behind what had, two days before, been Chanzy's left. It was, in Ralph's state of feebleness, a very long journey. Over and over again, he had to sit down and rest. He did not feel the cold, now; the fur coat, and the exertion of walking, kept his body in a glow. He took great pains, however, not to exert himself, so as to make himself too hot; as he feared that his wound might break out, if he did so. He was fully twelve hours upon the road; and daylight was just breaking in the east when--exhausted by hunger, fatigue, and loss of blood--he crawled up to the door, and knocked.
There was a movement inside, but it was not until he had knocked twice that a voice within asked:
"Who is there?"
"A wounded officer," Ralph said.
There was a whispered talk, inside.
"Let me in, my friends," he said, "for the remembrance of your boys in Paris. There is no danger to you in doing so as, if the Germans come, you have only to say you have a wounded officer. I can pay you well."
"We don't care for pay," the woman of the house said; opening the door, with a candle in her hand--and then falling back, with a cry of horror, at the object before her: a man, tottering with fatigue, and with his face a perfect mask of stiffened blood.
"You do not remember me," Ralph said. "I am the captain of the staff who chatted to you, two days ago, about your boys in Paris."