“Why was I sent to that upstairs room?” demanded Roy.
“M’sieu, there were doubtless reasons. It is sometimes best that one should not know all the reasons that may exist,” observed Jean meditatively. “What if, perhaps, somebody had known of the intended escape, and had tried by that means to save M’sieu from danger?”
“Jean, was it you?”
“Non, M’sieu!”—decidedly. But whether Jean spoke the truth on this point, whether Jean might or might not have had a hand in the wire-pulling which led to that event, Roy had no means of knowing. He felt that further questioning would be unfair. He had but to be thankful that he was free.
By the time hunger and thirst were satisfied, Roy’s spirits had risen to a pitch unknown to him during eight months past. Then, the land being shrouded in darkness, a rough little cart drawn by a rough little pony and driven by a charcoal-burner came to the door. Roy spoke a few grateful words to him, as well as again to Jean, for their generous help. After which, he and Jean started in the cart, taking a small lantern with them.
This next stage of the journey meant quicker and easier advance than that of the night before. The pony was both strong and willing; and all through the hours of darkness they were getting farther and farther away from Bitche. By dawn of day the fear of pursuit was immensely lessened. Even if the gendarmes had overtaken them, they would hardly have suspected the odd figure in a smart old coat and ancient cocked hat of being the temporary wood-chopper at Bitche, or the black-haired boy in a rough blouse of being their prisoner, Roy Baron.
For greater safety, both that day and the next, they found a retired spot in which to hide, letting the pony loose to browse and rest on some rough ground, or putting up it and the cart at a wayside inn, and calling for it later. One way and another, the dreaded pursuit was eluded; and, as day after day went by, Roy felt himself indeed free and on the road for Home.
“Why should you not come with me to England, Jean? I can promise you that you’d be well looked after there by my friends,” urged Roy. He had grown sincerely fond of this kind, thoughtful Frenchman.
They were now fast nearing the coast, and their next halting-place was to be at a farm-house within sight of the sea. There they would have to remain until an opportunity should occur for Roy to cross the Channel. Since he had no passport he could not attempt to journey by the ordinary routes. But even here Jean’s resources did not fail, and the owners of the said farmhouse were near relatives of his own.
“Non, M’sieu. I should feel strange in another country. Also—have I not promised to let Monsieur le Capitaine, and Monsieur votre Père, and Madame votre Mère, hear of your safety? Could I disappoint them?”