“Good-bye, monsieur; much obliged for your good dinner!” cried Jack Windy, as Monsieur Mouret kindly shook him and his companions by the hand. “We will not forget you, and be sure to give you a call, if we come this way again.”
The party were once more on their road.
“Here, sir, the nigger servant gave us these bundles to look after,” said Jack. “They’re our duds, I suppose. One is yours, sir, and the rest ours.”
“Take care of them,” said Mr Collinson. “They may be useful to show who we are, should there be any doubt about the matter.”
They pushed on till it was dark, as fast as the negro soldiers could march, the sergeant being anxious, apparently, to make up for the time they had spent at Monsieur Mouret’s house. They reached a village at length, where he told them they must stop.
“Is there an inn to which we can go?” asked Mr Collinson.
The negro grinned.
“No, monsieur,” he answered; “but quarters will be assigned to you.”
After being kept waiting for some time, the sergeant, who had gone away, returned, and told them to follow.
“Here’s a fine place,” he said, pointing to a tumbledown barn, or shed rather; “but I will see if we can get some straw, and something for supper. You will not require much, after the good dinner you enjoyed.”