“Not enough.”

“I assure you that I don’t snore or howl in my sleep.  And you could have the sofa to curl up on.”

“Ye-es; but I’d rather go on.  You and Joseph can stop.  Innocentina and I will be all right.”

I was annoyed with the child.  I felt that he fully deserved to be taken at his word, and deserted on the Pass, but I had not the heart to punish him.  If anything should happen to the poor Babe in the Wood, I should never forgive myself; and besides, it would have been hopeless to seek sleep, with visions of disaster to this strange Little Pal of mine painting my brain red.

“Of course I won’t do anything of the kind,” I said crossly.  “If one party goes on, both will go on.”  I then snappishly ordered food of some sort, any sort—­except chocolate,—­and having, after a blank interval, obtained enough bread, cheese, and ham for at least ten persons, I divided the rations with Joseph and Innocentina, who had now come up.

We had a short halt for rest and refreshment, taken simultaneously, and presently set out again, with a vague idea of plodding on as far as Orsieres.  The Boy refused so obstinately to ride his donkey (I believe because I must go on foot), that Innocentina, thwarted, did frightful execution among her favourite saints.  Joseph reproved her; she retorted by calling him a black heretic, and vowing that she had a right to talk as she pleased to her own saints; it was not his affair.  Thus it was that our chastened cavalcade left the “Dejeuner.”

After this, our journey was punctuated by frequent pauses.  The donkeys were tired; everybody was cross; the calm indifference of the glorious night was as irritating as must have been the “icily regular, splendidly null” perfection of Maud herself.

Only the Boy kept up any pretence of spirits, and I knew well that his counterfeited buoyancy was merely to distract attention from guilt.  If it had not been for him, we should all have been tucked away in some corner or other of the “Dejeuner.”  No doubt he would have dropped, had he not feared an “I told you so.”

We were still some miles on the wrong side of Orsieres, when Innocentina came running up from behind, exclaiming that a dreadful thing, an appalling thing, had happened.  No, no, not an accident to Joseph Marcoz.  A trouble far worse than that.  Nothing to the mulet ou les anes.  Ah, but how could she break the news?  It was that in some way—­some mad, magical way only to be accounted for by the intervention of evil spirits, probably attracted by the heretic presence of Joseph—­the ruecksack containing the fitted bag had disappeared.  If she were to be killed for it, she—­Innocentina—­could not tell how this great calamity had occurred.

I thought that after such an alarming preface, the Boy would laugh when the mountain had brought forth its mouse, but he did no such thing.  His little face looked anxious and forlorn in the white moonlight.  And all for a mere bag, which was an absurd article of luggage, at best, for an excursion such as his!