Few words were spoken by either. While in the vicinity of Bitche even the lightest whisper meant a risk of being overheard; and when the fear lessened, breath and strength were too precious to be wasted.
Roy’s powers were severely taxed. Excitement kept him going. But he had slept and eaten little, and had worked hard, during the last thirty hours; and after six months without proper exercise, he was direfully out of training. His muscles had grown flabby, and he so soon began to pant as to become angry with himself. Still, he fought doggedly onward, making no complaint.
At first they followed by-paths or kept to fields for greater safety; but by-and-by Jean struck into the high road, and here advance was easier. It was unlikely that Roy would be missed before early morning; and, even if pursued now, they would see the approaching gendarmes before they could be seen, and to hide in the darkness would not be difficult.
As hour passed after hour, and still they made uninterrupted progress, Roy grew light of heart. Breathlessness, aching limbs, sharp cold, growing hunger—all these were as nothing compared with the fact that he was free! No stone walls, no iron-bound and padlocked doors, shut him ruthlessly in!
From time to time a brief halt became necessary, and Roy was allowed to fling himself flat on the icy ground for ten minutes, after which he could always start with redoubled energy.
“Wonder what happened to take you to Bitche, Jean?” he said, after one of these breaks.
“M’sieu, I had a friend at Bitche.”
“A gendarme! A soldier?” asked Roy, with quickness.
“Oui, M’sieu. Un soldat. M’sieu will perhaps refrain from putting many questions. It is a friend whom I have known from boyhood. He was taken, like others, in the conscription, and no kind Messieurs were at hand to help to buy him off. And his mother, M’sieu, his poor mother became imbécile.[1] La pauvre femme? See what might have come to my mother also, but for the goodness of ces Messieurs.”
“She became imbécile because he had to go to the war?”