“That is M. le Curé’s cunning. With so many soldiers about, his church would be suffocated if he called attention——”
“But where are the soldiers?” demanded Jean.
They went down the path, which was narrow and slippery with mire, between walls of rye that, when brushed against, shook down the golden rain in showers. Jean led, with Pauline at his heels. They reached the plantation and entered it by a low gap. The wood being of beech, there was no undergrowth to wet their legs; but the boughs dripped. The plantation ended at a bank overhanging a paved road, and down this bank they scrambled without difficulty.
The pavement ran down the middle of the road, and they followed this, avoiding the slush which lined it on either side. The ruts here were prodigious. In fact, the children, who had driven the cattle up this road a few hours ago, found it almost unrecognisable.
They now heard sounds of wood-cutters’ axes, creaking timber, men’s voices—foreign voices, and at an angle of the road came on a sudden glimpse of scarlet. The avenue to the château turned off from the high-road just here; and just beyond the turning a company of British red-coats were completing an abattis, breast-high, of lopped trees criss-crossed and interlaced with beech-boughs.
An officer caught sight of the children as they stood hesitating, and warned them sharply to go back.
“But we have a message for our father, who is the gardener yonder,” spoke up Jean, with a jerk of his thumb towards the château.
“Well, you can give it to the sentry at the gate, if he’ll take it. But be quick!”
The children darted up the avenue between the poplars. At the entrance gate, which stood open, sure enough they found a red-coat posted.
“We bring a message for our father, who is the gardener here,” said Jean, hardily.