"Yes, I—I am—a little," she said quietly.
"We've traveled almost far enough. We must have come a mile at least into this forest. It seems limitless."
He peered about, taking a few steps forward along the path, which widened here. The trees, too, were further apart, and a larger patch of the windy sky was visible. Hermia followed, guiding the donkey. They emerged into a glade, their road not well defined, and made out against the trees beyond a rectangular bulk of gray. Markham went forward more briskly, his spirits rising. Providence was kind to them. A house! A house in France, he had discovered, meant hospitality. To-night, at least, it meant a shelter from the rain which now pattered crisply upon the dry leaves of a forgotten autumn. A small affair it was, a keeper's or a forester's lodge of one story only, with a small shed or stable at the side. There were no lights, but that was reasonable enough. French country folk made no pretence of entertaining visitors at such early hours of the morning. As they approached the building the matter of its occupancy seemed open to question, for the closed windows stared blankly at the leaden sky. An eloquent shutter hung helplessly from its hinges and weeds ranged riotously about the front door, near which a wooden bench lay overturned. While Hermia waited under a tree Markham walked slowly around the house, returning presently with the information that its rear confirmed the impression of desertion. But to make the matter certain he walked to the door and vigorously clanged the knocker. Hollow echoes, but no other sound. He knocked again; to his surprise the door yielded to the touch of his shoulder and creakily opened.
"We'll go in, I think," he laughed. And, leaving the patient donkey for the moment to her fate, he led the way indoors. A match illumined for a moment the hallway, showing a ladder-like stair to a trap door above, and then, sputtering faintly in the musty air, went out. Since matches were scarce, he deftly made a torch of a paper from his pocket with better success. A brief glance into the room at their left showed signs of recent occupancy. His quick survey marked an oil lamp in the corner, which, upon investigation, proved to be in working order, so he lit it with the end of his expiring taper.
The room was handsomely paneled in white. There was a couch in the corner, a rug upon the floor and several easy chairs were drawn sociably toward the chimney breast; along one wall was a gun-rack and in the center of the room a table with a litter of magazines, a box of cigars, a decanter of wine and some glasses.
Their appraisal concluded, they faced each other blankly. Then Markham laughed.
"I wonder what's the punishment for poaching in France," he said gaily.
Hermia dropped wearily upon the couch.
"I'm sure I don't know—or care in the least," she sighed. "I'll go to prison willingly in the morning if they'll only let me sleep now. I'm tired. I didn't know I could ever be so tired."
Markham glanced at her and then quickly poured out a glass of wine, brought it to her, and in spite of her protests made her drink.