Dian heard the great clock on the stairs at Les Vignes boom out the twelve strokes of midnight as he said the few hasty words of farewell to Neville. He saw with satisfaction that the moon was out and that the wind was changing. He walked down the great driveway which led through the demesne. It was a good mile to the gates, but with his long, easy strides he covered the ground with amazing quickness. At the left was the dark outline of the wood and behind lay the wide terraces, grey and bare this late November night.
Dian turned to his left at the far end of the driveway and entered a narrow path bordered on each side by slim poplar trees, then he climbed through a narrow opening in a low hedge and found himself on the highroad. He walked quickly along until he came to the row of straggling huts to which Jean had brought the loaves of bread on the August night when he had tried to keep his cousin Grigge from taking one whole loaf for himself.
He knocked softly on the door of one of the huts and waited, listening. After a moment he heard a sound from within and then the door opened slightly and a gaunt, thin face showed itself. It was the face of Grigge, and when he saw the shepherd standing there, he came outside, closing the door softly behind him. He had on the same old, shabby work clothes that he had worn all day, having lain down for the night on his heap of straw without removing them, glad of the little warmth they afforded him.
“Dian!” he exclaimed softly. “Dian! Where are you going?”
The shepherd put his sack on the ground and, feeling in the inside pocket of his cloak, brought out a goatskin purse and handed it to the boy, who took it wonderingly.
“I am going on something of a journey, Grigge, and I am leaving my sheep in your care. I am trusting them to you and I know that in spite of your wild ways, lad, you will keep them faithfully for me. Let them pasture until the snow comes and then be on guard for the wolves. Here is a bit of money, only a bit. Mother Barbette will give you bread when she has it to give, but there will not be overmuch for her and Jean. Farmer Lessoir will sell you flour, such as it is. You must see to it that your mother and the young children have their share.”
Dian put his hand kindly on Grigge’s shoulder, and he saw that the color had come into the boy’s cheeks at his words. Grigge caught hold of the edge of the shepherd’s cloak and looked up at him imploringly, for it seemed as though he could not bear to say good-by to the one person in all the world whom he loved and trusted.
“Oh, do not go away and leave me, Dian. It is awful to think of the winter’s coming. What shall I do without you, Dian! No one will have aught to do with me but you.” Grigge turned up the frayed collar of his poor jacket as he spoke, for the chill air swirled about him unmercifully.
“You are to be a man while I am away. Try to be brave and to add a little comfort to the lives of your poor mother and your brothers and sisters. Go to your aunt for counsel. She is a good woman and means well by you all.” Dian lifted his sack as he spoke and threw it over his shoulder.
“I’m not welcome there. I’ll have naught to do with them,” Grigge answered sullenly, but realizing that his friend was about to depart he caught his cloak again. “I’ll do well by the sheep, and I’ll try to think of the others when the hunger is tearing at my heart. Will you not tell me where you are going and why you leave this way in the stillness of the night?”