“Eh! we are fortunate!” cried Bavois.  “Give me some, and I will soon find some shop in the suburbs where I can purchase a change of clothing.”  He departed; but it was not long before he reappeared, transformed by a peasant’s costume, which fitted him perfectly.  His small, thin face was almost hidden beneath an immense broad-brimmed hat.

“Now, steady, forward, march!” he said to Maurice and Marie-Anne, who scarcely recognized him in this disguise.

The town, which they soon reached, was called Saliente.  They read the name upon a guide-post.

The fourth house after entering the place was a hostelry, the Traveller’s Rest.  They entered it, and ordered the hostess to take the young lady to a room and to assist her in disrobing.

The order was obeyed, and Maurice and the corporal went into the dining-room and ordered something to eat.

The desired refreshments were served, but the glances cast upon the guests were by no means friendly.  It was evident that they were regarded with suspicion.

A large man, who was apparently the proprietor of the house, hovered around them, and at last embraced a favorable opportunity to ask their names.

“My name is Dubois,” replied Maurice, without the slightest hesitation.  “I am travelling on business, and this man here is my farmer.”

These replies seemed to reassure the host a little.

“And what is your business?” he inquired.

“I came into this land of inquisitive people to buy mules,” laughed Maurice, striking his belt of money.

On hearing the jingle of the coin the man lifted his cap deferentially.  Raising mules was the chief industry of the country.  This bourgeois was very young, but he had a well-filled purse, and that was enough.

“You will excuse me,” resumed the host, in quite a different tone.  “You see, we are obliged to be very careful.  There has been some trouble in Montaignac.”

The imminence of the peril and the responsibility devolving upon him, gave Maurice an assurance unusual to him; and it was in the most careless, off-hand manner possible that he concocted a quite plausible story to explain his early arrival on foot accompanied by a sick wife.  He congratulated himself upon his address, but the old corporal was far from satisfied.

“We are too near the frontier to bivouac here,” he grumbled.  “As soon as the young lady is on her feet again we must hurry on.”

He believed, and Maurice hoped, that twenty-four hours of rest would restore Marie-Anne.

They were mistaken.  The very springs of life in her existence seemed to have been drained dry.  She did not appear to suffer, but she remained in a death-like torpor, from which nothing could arouse her.  They spoke to her but she made no response.  Did she hear? did she comprehend?  It was extremely doubtful.

By rare good fortune the mother of the proprietor proved to be a good, kind-hearted old woman, who would not leave the bedside of Marie-Anne—­of Mme. Dubois, as she was called at the Traveller’s Rest.