"Where are you going, Jacques, in this devil of a storm?"
Jacques tried to concoct some story to explain his expedition; and before he had decided which would be the most effective, he caught himself saying simply,—
"I am going to the mountain, Father Monhache, to get some dead wood. We have none at home, and my mother is ill."
The old guard dropped an oath and said in a voice which was by no means harsh,—
"Ah, so you are going to the mountain for dead wood, are you? Well, if I meet you in the village this evening with your fagot, I will close one eye and wink the other, do you understand? And if you ever tell anybody what I said, I will pull your ears." And he walked off with a shrug. He had not gone ten feet when he turned and shouted, "There is more dead wood in the copse of the Prévoté than anywhere else."
VI.
"He is not such a bad man, after all," thought Jacques.
He was now climbing the mountain, and it was a hard struggle for his little legs. Every now and then he heard what he thought was a moan in the distance,—the breaking of a limb under the weight of the snow. Look as he would through all those branches, he could not see a single blackbird, nor even a jay. Not a little mouse ran along the slope. A few intrepid sparrows alone, black spots on the white ground, hopped about in search of food.
Measuring his steps to the time, Jacques began to sing in a low tone,—