"Take the road through the village; it leads to Pontivy. There, perchance, ye may find horses. Fare ye well!"
And, passing out into the darkness of the night, the Englishmen began their long journey afoot, stealing silently through the almost deserted streets towards the frowning hills of Brittany.
[1] It was not until thirty years later that the hospitals of St. Lazare and St. Germain were founded in Paris for the relief of these unfortunate sufferers. On systematic steps being taken to deal with the malady, the number of its victims quickly diminished; till the scourge was practically wiped out.
[CHAPTER XII]
THE JOURNEY PERILOUS
LONG before the grey morn began to dawn Redward and his son had covered a couple of leagues, and were at the foot of a long range of hills. Slowly they began the ascent, and, ere the summit was reached, the light was sufficient for them to see their grotesque and horrible garb.
"A safe disguise," exclaimed Raymond, "yet right glad will I be when we can doff these garments."
"A safe disguise enough, should the barber not play us false," replied his father. "I liked not his looks, though I trow he is in no ways to blame for the cut of his face."
"But dost think that he will play us false?"
"'Tis not unlikely; so the more leagues we place between us and St. Brieuc the better. Canst get at thy sword-hilt?"
"Not easily. Wherefore dost thou ask?"