“Indeed you are mistaken, sir. Pray sell us bread and milk, for the poor boy’s sake. He is starving.”
“Let him starve in prison then. Off with you—off!”
He advanced upon them with so fierce a gesture that the Doctor caught Phil’s arm, thrust him behind so as to screen him from danger, and then backed away.
“My poor boy,” he groaned, pressing Phil closer to him. “It is like being in an enemy’s land—and one of my own countrymen too.”
“He must be a friend of Pierre,” said Phil. “Oh, Dr Martin, this is not like a holiday. What shall we do?”
“Pray, boy, that all Frenchmen are not so stony-hearted. There, there, be brave; we shall find others yet who will not treat you so, and—”
“Hist!—Stop!” came from a clump of trees on their right.
“Who spoke?” said Phil, with a wondering look.
“I. Come here, out of sight of the house,” and the next minute the wanderers were gazing excitedly at a ruddy-cheeked girl, who stood before them with a big jug in one hand, a basket in the other.