"The west for us," said John and Carstairs together.
The country was hillier and more wooded than usual, but they saw little of it, as it was enveloped in a cloud of rain and mist. Nor did they meet any other travelers on the road, a fact which did not surprise them, as the whole region was now almost deserted by everybody save soldiers.
The high spirits they had accumulated at the inn were soon dissipated. It was impossible to remain gay, when one was sodden through and through. The rain came down, as if it meant to do so forever, and all the valleys were filled with mists and vapors. But the road clean and well paved led straight on, and Wharton and Carstairs seemed to know it well.
"Another inn would suit me," said John who was the first to speak in more than an hour. "I shouldn't want to stop because I know we haven't time for it, but I'd like to look in at the window, as I rode by, and see the fire blazing."
"You'll see nothing of that kind before one o'clock in the afternoon," said Carstairs. "Then we come to another neat little village, and another good inn. We'll have to stop there for our horses to feed, as we gave them nothing this morning. So you can do more than look at the window and see the blazing fire."
The road led now between high hedges, and they heard a report some distance to their right. Wharton who was in front suddenly pulled back his horse.
"What's the matter?" the other two exclaimed together.
"A bee stung me," replied Wharton grimly.
He held up his left hand. The blood was flowing from a thin red line across the back of it.
"A bullet did that!" exclaimed Carstairs.