“My faith! some were hard to convert.  The owner of this place, for instance.  We were here for a month, and never lived better in our lives.  The fool!  He had a pretty daughter, too, and I fell in love with her.  The farmer objected, and one day had the insolence to strike me.  That was treason, of course, and the least we could do, especially as he was so obstinate in the matter of his conversion, was to burn his farm.  He shot one of my men while we were at the work, and—­well, we hanged him.  That was twelve years ago.”

The sergeant laughed.  I, who had heard something from my father of King Lewis’ treatment of his Huguenot subjects—­of the Dragonnade, as it was called, and the sufferings of the poor people at the hands of the brutal soldiery—­I, who knew of this, was shocked at the callous levity of the captain’s speech; and I could have struck the fat, foolish face of the sergeant for his chuckle.

“What fools men are!” the captain went on.  “Who would have supposed that these rascals of deserters would make for the very place where they would most readily be discovered!  But all these peasants are simpletons.  If you, now, were to desert, Jules, you would not return to Meaux, would you?  You are a townsman, and have more sense.  But these peasants—­bah! cattle, no more.”

I thought the sergeant’s laugh at this rang a trifle hollow.  He was not a soft-hearted man in appearance, but perhaps he had some fellow feeling for poor men dragged from their work at the plough to serve in the army of the Grand Monarque.  His next words surprised me, for I had not understood the captain’s reference to deserters.

“Shall we give them something to eat, mon capitaine?” he asked.

“Decidedly not,” said the officer with an oath.  “They have led us a pretty dance, and what’s the good of food to men about to be shot!”

“But they may fall from exhaustion before we reach Rennes,” suggested the sergeant, “and that may cause delay.  They have had nothing for near twelve hours, mon capitaine, and marching best part of the time.”

“Well, give them a crust,” said the captain, lazily throwing himself back on the straw; “but it is waste, sheer waste.”

The sergeant rose and, taking some scraps of food, crossed the room and disappeared from my sight.  I knew now that the deserters of whom they had spoken were actually in the place with them, and found myself pitying the fate of men who had had the ill luck to fall into the hands of so coldly brutal an officer as this captain.

Then I turned about with a start, having the strange feeling—­for I heard nothing—­that someone was moving behind me.  It was Runnles.  He came towards me stealthily, wearing that meek, shy look of his, and told me in a whisper that Joe Punchard had sent him to see what had become of me.  At the sight of him a fantastic notion buzzed into my head.  I caught him by the sleeve and whispered eagerly in his ear, his eyes becoming two round O’s with excitement as he listened.  He stole away again, and I turned once more to my business of eavesdropping.