"No, but I fancy the owner is," said Roger. "Look!"
He pointed to the figure of an old man, with white hair, seated at a table in what was evidently the kitchen. The man's head was bowed on his arms which were resting on the table.
"Oh!" exclaimed Jimmy, as he looked in.
"Beg your pardon, sir," said Bob, "but we're Americans. May we stay here out of the rain, and perhaps for the night?"
There was no answer. The figure did not move.
"He doesn't understand anything but French, very likely," said Franz.
"Can't you take a hand, Blazes?"
"Yes," assented Jimmy. "But it's funny he didn't wake up when Bob spoke, even if he didn't understand. I'll go ahead. But let's get in out of the wet."
They entered the room. The white-haired occupant of it did not stir from his position of bowed-down grief.
"He sleeps very soundly," remarked Jimmy in a low voice.
Stepping forward he touched the old man on the shoulder, and then
Jimmy knew what had happened.