He rose. Pale and still trembling, Asticot stumbled to his feet, his pasty face twisted with unuttered maledictions.
Moving cautiously to the eastern edge of the vineyard, they saw, far below them, six Uhlans riding slowly eastward toward the Bois de Saïs, and a gross figure on foot shuffling ahead and evidently acting as pilot toward the wilder uplands of the rolling country beyond.
Warner watched them through his glasses until they disappeared in the woods, then he turned, looked at the burning town in the north for a few moments, closed his field glasses and slung them, and, nodding to Asticot, descended the western slope toward the river.
There were no people visible anywhere, either on the quarry road or across the river. The fugitives from Ausone must have gone west toward Dreslin.
Asticot crawled into the punt; Warner shoved off and poled for midstream, where he let the current carry him down toward Saïs.
"Asticot?"
"M'sieu'?"
"That was only one small scouting party of Uhlans. Perhaps there are more of them along the river."
Asticot began to curse again, but Warner stopped him.
"Curb that charmingly fluent flow of classic eloquence," he said. "It may sound well on the outer boulevards, but I don't care for it."