“It’s the old mill. We’ve walked all night and we’ve only come to the mill!”

Marie Josephine stood still in the middle of the road. They had come out from the cool shade of the forest road and the early morning sunshine greeted them. The sky was faintly blue and everywhere there was the sleepy twitter of birds.

They had walked steadily all night, except for occasional rests by the wayside.

“We might have our dÉjeuner here, some hot coffee and a petit pain. We can rest while we eat it,” suggested Marie Josephine, and Jean assented eagerly. He was too excited as yet to be really tired, it was all so utterly new to him. He had never been as far as the forest by the old mill in all his life. He kept thinking over and over:

“Petite MÈre will soon be waking and she’ll find that I’m gone!”

As they came up to the mill-inn, a woman stood in the doorway. When she saw her, Marie Josephine stopped, hesitated, and would have turned away but the woman said sharply:

“What do you want, you two little tramps?”

Marie Josephine answered, “We’re not tramps, but we’re very hungry and want some breakfast. We can pay for it.”

“You’re not to say that she is a tramp,” put in Jean indignantly, nodding toward Marie Josephine. The woman paid no attention to him. She was looking steadily at Marie Josephine, and as she looked, Marie Josephine could feel the color come into her cheeks. Could it be that the inn woman recognized her as the young Mademoiselle who had eaten dÉjeuner there the summer before? There was something about the woman which was familiar, something more than the remembrance of the summer before. Marie Josephine caught her breath. She suddenly remembered the figure she had seen under the oak tree after dinner the night before. She caught Jean’s hand and started to turn away, but at that moment the woman gave an exclamation and looked off toward the forest path. The children followed her glance. There, coming toward them, running lightly, and clearing a big mud puddle in the middle of the road with a bound, was Flambeau!

He leaped upon Marie Josephine, fairly devouring her with kisses. There was no use in pretending, Flambeau had given them away! He gave short, staccato barks of joy, turning to jump on Jean, licking his face and hands, and then turning again to his little mistress.

The inn woman looked from one to the other of them keenly, her face now alive with interest. She stared at Marie Josephine as hard as she could. Then she exclaimed:

“The dog seems to know you well. I have seen him before and, if I’m not mistaken, I’ve seen you, too.” As she spoke, she pushed Marie Josephine gently toward the door, looking over her shoulder at Jean. “You can come in. I’ll have some coffee and a bit of bread for you soon. You can rest awhile, for you both looked fagged out.”

Marie Josephine, though she was almost inside the door, tried to pull herself away from the woman.

“No, Jean, we’ll go on, we don’t want breakfast here,” she said, but the woman had stretched out her arm and pulled Jean in, too.

“Don’t be stupid. Of course you must have food, or you’ll not be able to take the rest of your journey, wherever it is you’re going.” The woman spoke kindly and shut the door after them. Flambeau had been the first to enter the mill-inn, and he bounded across the oddly-shaped room, still barking his delight.

“Well, what do you think of this for a good resting place? See, there’s a window cut in the side over there so you can see the forest.” The woman was standing in front of the door, and as Marie Josephine and Jean followed the direction of her finger, and looked out at the road leading to the forest path, she quietly and quickly turned the key in the lock and put it in her pocket.

“Now I’ll tell you what you can do. Go up those stairs and you’ll find a nice little room at the top. It has tables and chairs just like this one, and there’s a fireplace there. I built a bit of fire early, for the mill gets damp even on spring nights. You both go up there and rest, and I’ll bring your coffee up to you. I’ll bring a bone and some milk for the dog, too,” she said. Marie Josephine’s heart beat fast as she listened. Did the woman remember how she had fed Flambeau the summer before? Could it be that she was the person underneath the oak? This dark woman at the inn had been spying on them at Les Vignes!

Marie Josephine followed Jean up the funny winding stairs. They found the room at the top. There were tables and chairs in it, just as the woman had said. They went over to a table near the small fire. There were white muslin curtains at the single window and a pot of geraniums stood on the sill. It was a neat, cheerful room, and if she had not been anxious, Marie Josephine would have loved it, for the fact that the familiar, old olive mill, which she had always known, had been turned into an inn interested her very much. As it was, she turned to Jean as soon as they had shut the door, and catching him firmly by the arm, whispered fiercely:

“It’s not safe here. She’s a spy. I saw her under our oak tree last night. I saw her going through the wood. There’s a dark cloak on the chair by the door downstairs. She wore it last night and she hasn’t been back very long, even though she did have four hours’ start of us. She knows who I am. Flambeau gave us away. She remembers him from last summer when we stopped here for dÉjeuner. Hush! I hear her!” Marie Josephine ran across the room and, when the door opened, she was looking out of the window. The side of the mill was painted green and there was an eave’s trough along it. An apple tree showing faintly pink and white swayed in the early morning breeze, its branches making a tapping sound as they flapped against the rough wall of the mill.

The woman Paulette came across to the fire and put down a tray.

“I had a sip of coffee early myself and so I just warmed some up for the two of you. It’s cold in the morning around here, even if spring has come,” she said. “Draw up to the table now and make yourselves at home. The brown bread will be to your taste, and there’s honey in the blue dish. Here’s milk for the dog.” The woman took a tin dish off the tray and, bending over, called, “Come, doggie,” as she put it on the floor.

Marie Josephine went over to the table and sat down, and Jean followed her example. He was astonished at what his friend had told him. Suddenly he felt so tired after walking all night that he was not a bit like his usual bright, eager self.

“It does look good. There’s nothing I like better than bread and honey!” Marie Josephine exclaimed, pouring coffee from a brown jug into one of the two white cups and handing the cup to Jean. As she spoke she smiled a little wanly at the woman. She had spoken as cheerfully as she could and she hoped that she had not let the woman see that she suspected her.

Paulette eyed them both shrewdly.

“I’ll just go down and leave you to a quiet meal. There may be a coach party in for lunch, for even though it is out of the regular beat we get them sometimes.” She crossed the room and went out as she spoke. As she pushed the blue dish of honey toward Jean, Marie Josephine felt her heart sink and for a moment the lump in her throat was so big she could not swallow. She had heard the woman’s key click in the lock!

Jean took a huge slice of bread and honey in his two hands and bit a big half moon in it. He was so hungry that it didn’t seem to him as though anything else mattered very much for the moment, but when he saw Marie Josephine’s face he put down the bread and looked at her.

“It isn’t so bad here, Little Mademoiselle. The woman seems kind enough. You couldn’t have seen her at Les Vignes,” he protested.

Marie Josephine ate a slice of bread and drank some coffee before she replied. “We must keep up our strength,” she said. In spite of the peril of the situation she almost had a thrill at the thought that here indeed was an adventure, one that held all sorts of possibilities. She turned to Jean and her eyes were as big as saucers as she said to him:

“How many times must I tell you not to call me the Little Mademoiselle? You are to say Jo. I’ve reminded you twice already. You must remember, Jean. We are locked in here and we are prisoners. Don’t you understand?”

Jean jumped up and ran over to the door and tried it. It would not open. They were locked in!

“She recognized me, but not for certain until Flambeau came. Oh, how did he get out!” Flambeau left his dish of milk and came up to Marie Josephine at the sound of his name, and she put her face against his back. “Flambeau, why did you come? You’ve caused all the trouble. What shall we do with you?”

Jean was now fully awake to the situation and, although he was frightened, he was excited and alert. He nodded at Marie Josephine.

“It’s come, hasn’t it? You know we’ve always wanted an adventure! What would they say if they knew at Les Vignes, Lit—” Jean caught himself just in time, “Jo.”

Marie Josephine had jumped up from the table while Jean was speaking. She clasped her hands together and put her face down on them, and the tears trickled through her fingers.

“We must get away, we must. Why, they will discover that we’ve gone very soon now. It must be nearly seven. They will be sending Neville to find us, and his horse is fleet.” She caught her breath with a sob as she spoke.

“It’s a long ride, and if we do get away I’m not afraid that Neville will find us, for we are small and can hide easy, Jo,” Jean said, and Marie Josephine smiled faintly. She had no pocket handkerchief and so rubbed her sleeve across her eyes.

“How stupid I am to cry. We must do something at once, Jean. We—but what can we do?”

Jean ran over to the window and looked out. He tugged at the knob, for the window shut like a small door. Marie Josephine came up to him and when he tired of tugging at it she tried to move it. It was a little swollen by recent dampness, but after Jean tugged the second time it gave, swung open, and the fresh morning air greeted them. Something else greeted them, too. It was the sweet pink and whiteness of the apple tree. Jean leaned way out on the window ledge and looked around, his eyes shining excitedly. Then he turned and faced Marie Josephine.

“It’s risky, but I think there’s a chance that we can reach the tree. The eave’s trough, don’t you see, holding on to the roof where it curves down!” he said.

She leaned way over and peered up at the low roof and then down at the eave’s trough. It curved down and ran straight across the side of the mill, just below them. There was not a moment to lose, for the woman would be coming back soon for the tray.

“We can try. But Flambeau! We can’t leave him. Could he, do you think—would he follow us?”

Jean nodded. “I believe he would, and there’s no other way. Yes, I know he would, for he’s always followed us everywhere. I’ll go first, then you, and you’ll see that he’ll come. He can balance well. And oh, yes, don’t you remember the time he walked the ledge of the summer house when we were playing ship?” Jean whispered eagerly but softly.

Marie Josephine nodded. “You go and I’ll follow,” she whispered back.

Jean turned toward the table. “The bread, Jo! You said you had money for food, and we need the bread.”

Marie Josephine felt in her pocket and drew out a bag. In it were some coins and she put one on the table. Then she handed the loaf to Jean and he put it inside his blouse, buttoning his jacket over it. He jumped up on the sill and, turning carefully, reached up and caught the overhanging ledge of the roof. Then he cautiously put one foot along the ledge, drawing the other up to it, and in that way made slow but sure progress toward the welcoming branches of the tree.

Marie Josephine listened carefully, her eyes on Jean. When Jean was safe she turned and put her hand on Flambeau’s head.

“You’re to follow, Flambeau, and you’re not to be afraid. You must follow,” she whispered. Then she jumped up on to the window sill, turned, and grasped the ledge of the roof as Jean had done. She heard the swish of the tree as he caught the branches, but she dared not look around. She did not dare to think of the woman Paulette, and she tried, for the moment, not to think of Flambeau, but that was not so easy, for there was an appealing squeal from the window sill. Then horrors! A sharp bark!

Marie Josephine called softly, “Flambeau, come!” She held on to the ledge and looked back, and, to her joy, saw the dog put his slender feet on to the trough and gingerly step forward. “Come, Flambeau, good doggie, pet, come!” she called again softly. Then she turned, caught at the branches, held them with every bit of strength in her body, swayed with them, dipping down through their leafy sweetness, loosening her hold the instant her feet touched the ground. She swayed and staggered, half fell over, but was up in an instant, and with Jean looked upward at Flambeau. He had reached the edge of the trough, and was looking down. Soon they saw that he had spied what they had not seen, a broad, thick branch some four feet below the trough. He leaped down, scrambled among the smaller branches for a moment, then jumped safely to the ground and ran with bounds after the two friends who seemed to scarcely touch their feet to the earth as they sped down the road, away from the forest, the old mill-inn, and the dark woman, Paulette!

They often wondered afterward how they had ever run so fast after their night of travel. Fear seemed to race behind them, and they were sure they heard the woman running and calling, but they never looked back to see. At last they could not run any longer. They came to a crossroad and sat down near the edge of the road, panting and exhausted. There was no one in sight and they rested for some little time before they could talk at all. Then Jean said, “There must be quicksilver in your feet, Jo,” and they both laughed.

Jean laughed the most, throwing back his head and shouting. He was so tired and excited that he could not seem to stop. “You look so awful, Jo. You are so untidy and dirty and ugly,” he said.

“It’s good that I do look just this way, for no one will know me. Poor Flambeau, see how tired he is. If only he hadn’t come. But wasn’t he wonderful there at the inn?”

There was the sound of wheels coming the other way, and they looked up and saw that a coach was approaching. Flambeau ran toward it, and as he came up to it, started to bark. The driver of the coach stopped and looked at him, and then at Marie Josephine and Jean.

“You both look fagged out. If you’re going my way I’ll give you a lift,” he said.

They came up to the side of the coach, and as they stood there it seemed as though everything went round and round before Marie Josephine’s eyes.

“We are tired, and so is Flambeau,” she said faintly. Then she scrambled up somehow into the back of the coach, and Jean followed her.

“We are going to Melon and beyond toward Paris. I have cousins near Melon,” Jean said to the man, and this was true.

There was only one other passenger in the cart, a fat market woman who kept muttering to herself, and every now and then leaning over a wooden box at her feet and saying, “Hush your gab. You’ll squawk all the way to Paris, I know you will.” The very disagreeable noise of imprisoned hens answered her. Marie Josephine remembered feeling sorry for the hens, and then she knew nothing more, for she fell into the deepest sleep she had ever known.

She woke suddenly, sat bolt upright, and rubbed her eyes. When she had fallen asleep she had felt the sun on her face, but as she woke the soft glimmer of stars greeted her. Jean was awake. He sat up beside the driver of the coach, talking busily. It was Flambeau’s caress which had roused her. He was lying close beside her. The hens were quiet and the woman was asleep. The kind man who drove the coach was smoking a pipe. Outside in the dusk the good-night call of birds came to them drowsily.

“You have to be very still when you catch them or you will frighten them away,” Jean was saying. “I always let them go. They are such dear little things I always free them after just a little while.” He seemed to be having the best kind of a time sitting up there by the driver. Marie Josephine hoped he would be very careful what he said, he was such a little chatterbox.

It had been so strange waking that way in the coach, for she had been dreaming of Lisle and had seen his face so vividly in her dream. He had on the velvet robes of the “Sun King,” and the jewels in his sword had sparkled as they had done on the night that he had sat beside her on the bed and told her that she was going to Les Vignes. What would he say if he could see her now? He would not even know that this funny, dirty girl was his little sister, Marie Josephine!

She had become used to the idea that she was going to run away to Paris. But in spite of her imagination she had somehow never quite been able to visualize it. Now it was a reality! She thought so much of the hidden cellar and of all that grandfather had told her that spring day so long ago.

“It is to be your secret unless by disclosing it you can save a life,” he had said. Paris, and all that was happening there, seemed like a bad dream. She had never really believed that anything could happen to her mother and Lisle. She often thought of the “other one” who knew of the cellar, and wondered if that person was helping, too. The waiting at Les Vignes for news of maman and Lisle had been more than she could bear.

The cart stopped with a jerk, and the driver turned his head.

“Are you awake back there in the cart? Do you hear me, girl?” he asked. “We’re almost at Melon. Are you going on to your cousins, or what will you do?”

Marie Josephine was alert in a moment. They must make the best of the darkness and of their long rest. She judged that Jean had told the driver to ask her, not knowing himself what she wanted to do.

“We’ll go on, thank you kindly. Come, Jean,” she replied, climbing down the side of the cart. Jean jumped off the driver’s seat and waved his cap up at him.

“That was a good ride and I slept enough to last a week when those old hens got quiet!” He laughed up at the driver as he spoke.

Suddenly a voice called through the darkness, “Are you Champar, the driver to the Calais road?” The next moment a boy with a round, honest face came up to the cart.

“That’s me,” the coach driver answered.

“Well, do you go near Pigeon Valley?” the boy asked.

“Not often, about once a month. I take in that way on my next route, and then go straight on toward Calais, but I have to dÉtour so much now it’s the hardest trip I have. I have to keep out of the way of cannon, my boy, and the army, and maybe fighting!” The driver spoke importantly.

“Well, anyway you don’t have any of that as far as Pigeon Valley.” The boy came close to the cart and spoke in a low tone. Marie Josephine could not hear. Evidently the man made some emphatic statement and the boy replied in a louder tone, “Never mind, if you don’t go straight there with the coach.” Then he handed the driver something white which looked like a letter. Marie Josephine heard him say:

“I’ll see that he gets it safely.” With that, Champar, the coach driver, whipped up his horses, waved his whip at them all, and drove on.