"Father," said the young man, "you cannot tarry here on the open causse, we must get on, into the coppice, to a charcoal-burner's lodge. There is one at no great distance."
A few minutes later Jean looked at his father. The old man had let fall his bridle, his head was sunk on his breast; in another moment he would have dropped from his saddle.
The youth called to him, and Ogier started and said:
"I am coming—directly."
In another second he was again asleep.
It was needful to dismount and make Ogier walk. So alone could he be kept awake. Half a mile distant was the charcoal-burner's heap, and a rude cabin of branches beside it.
One of the routiers led Ogier's horse. The old man became angry and irritable at being forced to walk. He scolded his son, he complained that he was badly treated; in vain did Jean explain that he desired him to go on but a little way. The Seigneur stood still, and said he must sit down—he could not, he would not proceed.
Then Jean poured the rest of his flask of spirit down Ogier's throat, and said peremptorily, "You shall come on, whether you will or no."
The old Seigneur obeyed, grumbled, and in a few minutes was at the charcoal-burning station, and had flung himself on a bed of fern in the hut, and was asleep almost as soon as he had cast himself on the bracken.
The charcoal-burner recognised Jean del' Peyra and saluted him respectfully, but looked askance at the two routiers.