Grigge gave the note to Anastasius Grubb and watched him as he read it. He was not thinking so much about the note, or what Anastasius would do, as he was about the man himself, for he was the oddest man that he had ever seen; his beard was so rich and full and brown, his voice so deep, so like a bellows, and his eyebrows so thick and frowning. After he had read the note he looked Grigge over as though he thought he was rather curious also. Then he destroyed the note. It was the one that Humphrey had written, and that Dian had sent, with his own, to Grigge, first by Raoul and then by Champar. Champar had gone back to Paris. Grigge was watching for him every day now, and he knew that the little party of fugitives in the forsaken barn near the city were watching, too.

Anastasius knew some French, having picked it up while carrying on his trade back and forth, and he used it now on Grigge.

“I’ll be waiting every night with a rowboat by the willow woods three miles south of the light-house station. I’ll keep hidden, and I’ll see that the schooner doesn’t bring suspicion on itself. Tell them I’ll be waiting. I’d do that and more for Humphrey Trail. We’ve played together as lads and, please Heaven, we’ll continue friends this many a year to come.” Anastasius relapsed into English at the last, but Grigge understood about the willow woods and the boat. He thought of Dian and that he would soon be seeing him and he smiled. That made him look so different that the skipper exclaimed:

“Th’art na so ugly when tha smiles; that th’art not!”

Then Grigge left him and went back through long circuitous ways through the country roads to the barn. He walked slowly and with the satisfied air of one who has at last accomplished something of moment. He had waited patiently day after day near the docks at Calais for a glimpse of the skipper of the Sandlass. Champar had been gone over a week and still there was no sign of this Anastasius Grubb, who alone, of all the owners of fishing crafts in and around the harbor, could take safely to England the little band of people who were at his mercy in Champar’s uncle’s barn, near the coast.

Grigge shuffled along in the dust that reminded him of the highway in Pigeon Valley. He thought of the croak of the frogs at night in the brook that ran along the back of the meadow behind the huts. He thought of the black bread that he had always eaten, and of the low-ceilinged, one-roomed hut that was his home. He had never meant anything to these people who awaited him in the lonely barn. Not one of them at Les Vignes, except the Little Mademoiselle, had ever given him more than a passing nod. All that he had done for them was because of Dian, but he had expected to taunt them with it, to humiliate them as they had so often, perhaps unthinkingly, humiliated him. He had thought that it would be fun to tease them, to tell them that the plan had fallen through and that there would be no possibility of the others reaching them; but he had not done any of these things, and as he walked along the quiet road that lovely May night, he felt closer to the sheltering greenness and the peaceful, drifting wind than he had ever felt before.

When he came within the region of the barn he dropped to his knees and crawled slowly through the dark underbrush. It would never do for a late passer-by on the road to Calais to see him going to the barn, which was so unusually isolated, half hidden by brush and trees. It was a remarkable hiding place.

CÉcile met him, having slid back the door when she heard his faint rap. The main part of the barn was lighted by three lanthorns which hung from the ceiling, but the light was dim, and there was a thick blanket hung across the one window, so that no glimmer could reach the fields beyond.

“I delivered the letter. He’s to wait every night by the willow woods. He says this Humphrey Trail’s his best friend. He’s safe. He won’t desert you.” There was a kinder tone in Grigge’s voice, for something in the eager way they listened to him touched him.

Madame le Pont said, “Thank God.”

CÉcile shut her eyes for a moment and then she said:

“They will come. I know they are safe. We had word that they were going to try to get through. That blessed cross-eyed Champar sent the message to us.” CÉcile turned and put her arms about Denise who had come close to her. “We’ll see them, chÉrie, soon,” she whispered. Denise could only sob on CÉcile’s shoulder. She at last was learning what it was to be in a revolution.

Hortense touched Grigge’s arm. “There is some supper here for you, an omelette that I’m cooking. It’s made with two of the eggs you brought us yesterday. ProtÉ has taught me to cook it, and I want you to say it’s good!” She spoke in a friendly way, and nothing could have showed plainer than her manner how they were all learning to know one another and to help. It was necessary that they keep occupied, and Hortense and ProtÉ had many a laugh over the former’s attempt at cooking. Bertran was the greatest problem, for he was determined to go out, and they trembled that he would in some way, in spite of his disguise, make trouble by causing suspicion. The days had gone by and they had not seen a living soul but themselves. Grigge had gone away every morning and stayed away all day, searching for Anastasius Grubb, whom at last he had found, and who had promised them his aid when the dear ones from Paris should come.

And the wayfarers—they who had come through the gates of Paris, through danger so great that it had seemed a simple thing to take one’s chance at once and without question when it came one’s way—where were they? They were thundering through the countryside, sometimes on the main highroad, but mostly through back lanes and untraveled pasture roads. The cart bumped about so much that their very heads whirled and they had to hold on just as hard as they could. They became so exhausted that they fell asleep in spite of themselves and their excitement. They ate what was given them by Champar and Dian, swallowing their food with dry lips and throats. Always there was the dread of meeting advancing outposts of the army. Once they had to hide, coach and all, for a day and part of a night in a copse in the woods.

One morning Champar turned to them, his eye cocked severely.

“If no one asks me once to-day if we’ll see the others surely, and if they really are safe in the barn, and if I am sure that Grigge was able to find Anastasius Grubb, I’ll tell you all something!”

They were all growing used to Champar, and Marie Josephine and Rosanne answered at once, “Tell us, Champar, hurry, tell us!” Lisle and Dian were walking beside the cart, and they came close to the side of it when Champar spoke, but he calmly urged his horse on and seemed suddenly lost in thought.

“What is it, Champar? Tell us!” Lisle put his hand on the side of the coach and looked up at the driver. Lisle was pale and tired and covered with dust. He had driven all night, so that Dian and Champar, who had had the brunt of the journey, could rest. “Shall we see our mother? Tell us, Champar.” Lisle’s lips quivered ever so slightly as he spoke. “Tell us,” he repeated, and there was the old imperious ring in his voice as he spoke.

So Champar told them. At noon they would meet the cart that had taken their mother out of Paris. It would be waiting for them at a farmhouse he knew well. It had had a day’s start and was lightly loaded and there had been no reason for making dÉtours as their mother’s passport was en rÈgle and no one would suspect Henri Berier’s sister of being an aristocrat! They would see their mother by noon that day!

Marie Josephine and Rosanne jumped out at the next hill and walked up it together. Toward the top they were joined by Lisle. Marie Josephine picked a bunch of wild lilies, putting them in the buttonhole of her jacket. Jean was on the box talking to Champar as on that night that Champar had given the two runaways a lift. Now and then the driver put his hands over his ears as Jean plied him with questions.

“It’s been so wonderful! Sometimes it seems like a terrible, interesting dream—but we won’t see Dian after we go to England.” Marie Josephine turned her face away from the others toward a sweep of golden wild lilies which gleamed like flakes of racing sunshine through the wood on their right. She did not want them to see her tears. They fell unseen on the lilies she had gathered.

“Maman! Maman! Maman!” The next moment she was screaming in an agony of joy, all her acting forgotten, all her poise and self-control lost. The coach had stopped by a lane which led from a farmhouse, and there stood a dark-eyed, slovenly woman in a faded homespun dress—her maman!

Lisle and Marie Josephine sat on each side of the comtesse inside the coach, Jean and Dian sat on the wide seat in front with Champar, who was so ashamed of the tear that splashed over his big nose that he swore under his breath and was cross to the horses. Maman could only hold Marie Josephine in her arms; nothing seemed to matter except that and the touch of Lisle’s hand on hers.

“My little dear one, my pigeon, my chÉrie,” she murmured over and over to Marie Josephine, holding her close to her fast-beating heart. “Darling, you came! It was you, my own little baby. I said there was something—do you remember, chÉrie, how I told you, there by the garden door, that there was something about you that reminded me of—of——?” Maman’s head went down over Marie Josephine’s shock of tangled locks, and she sobbed for a moment. Then she became more like her quiet, self-contained self.

It all seemed a dream, the sweet afternoon air, the haze of heat, the scent of the field lilies and early poppies. It was all a dream to Marie Josephine, for she was very tired, but she felt her mother’s arms about her and heard her mother’s endearing words, which sounded sweeter than any she had ever heard before. They had always been there, locked deep in the comtesse’s heart, but she had never known how much she wanted to say them until it was, as she had thought, too late.

They told her of Denise and the others, but they were too tired, all of them, to do more than that. There would be many a long winter evening in England when they could tell each other’s adventures. Now they must keep their thoughts on the barn, on the others, and on the blessed fishing schooner which would mean life for them.

Dian sat with his eyes closed, unmindful of Jean’s chatter with Champar. Vivi was safe. She had gone through with her own passport the morning before, fortunately unknown to her friend who had night duty at the gate, and who had so unsuspectedly let the other Vivi and her friends through the gates. He would see that the others were safe, and then he would take Vivi and Jean back to his own Pigeon Valley, to the comfort and welcoming blessing of Mother Barbette and the quiet protection of the little low-roofed house in the wood of the Les Vignes demesne. He felt sure that the little house was there, safe among its ferns and flowers, whatever may have happened to the big one. Grigge! He had great hopes and plans for Grigge!

He walked up the next hill with Lisle.

“You and Humphrey for friends! Maman safe! Dian, what have any of us done to deserve it? Dian, it isn’t for always; France is my home. Dian, I’m not forgetting that I am the last one of the Saint FrÈres. Whatever happens, you’ll take some of the gold for—no, you’ll never want it, but for Grigge. Tell me, Dian, is that a way of helping a little?” Lisle looked up almost entreatingly into the shepherd’s face.

“That is one way. Making Grigge your friend is a better one,” Dian answered him.

“Grigge my friend? Yes, I see that that can be,” Lisle answered.

They had reached a lane and Champar stopped his horses.

“It was out here, wasn’t it, my young citizeness, that you shoved your dog off on some farm children? What’s that!”

Something was dashing toward them down the fern-scented lane, something long and slender and grey. It was Flambeau!

They drove on, encumbered by a dog who leaped from one to the other of them in wild delight, barking so sharply that Champar swore out loud, declaring he was tired of the whole lot of them, at the same time winking back a tear and urging the horses on furiously.

“We should not take Flambeau, but, yes, we must, for he is a part of us,” exclaimed the comtesse as the dog’s warm tongue licked her face. He saw through the disguise of each one of them, as though his very love for them would not let him be deceived.

“I would never, never have left you, Flambeau, angel, if I hadn’t been a tramp girl, dearie. You are so—so——” Marie Josephine murmured.

“Such an aristo,” said Rosanne with a little choke, and just then Madame Saint FrÈre drew her close to her other side, and, putting an arm around each girl, she said: “Rosanne will see her mother one day. When last we heard from her she was safe in the hospital with your father. She begged us to see you safely out of the country and wrote that she and your father would join us when they could.”

“Dian will care for them both, and will see that they come to us,” answered Marie Josephine, and her mother looked at the shepherd, who sat beside Champar, with a world of confidence and gratitude in her eyes.

The lights of Calais glowed faintly through a sea mist. Champar drove very slowly. He knew the way, but the mist was thick and seemed to frighten the horses. They were near the gates that led to his uncle’s barn. It was almost time for them to alight and to walk through the field. A voice reached them suddenly, a breathless, hoarse voice which seemed to come out of the very heart of the grey night.

“Champar, quick! Listen! There isn’t a moment to lose. We’re discovered, suspected! It was that fool of a Bertran. He met a citizen who discovered he was disguised. He was followed. Then the man ran toward the town. They’ve all left the barn and gone to the willow wood. Grubb’s anchored near the shore there. Hurry! The mist will hide the cart. That’s it, jump. I’ll catch you, Little Mademoiselle. This way. Don’t let the dog bark. Yes, this way, this way——”

They were off through the mist, Grigge leading. The ground was soggy, and once Rosanne fell, but Dian caught her up and carried her. They did not speak at all, and through the silence Dian thought he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs on the highroad.

They were making slow progress. Once Flambeau barked.

“Take care, maman, see, this way. I’ll guide you.” Lisle took his mother’s arm, as he whispered this. He held fast to Marie Josephine’s arm with his other hand, and every time she tried to get away from him, he whispered authoritatively, “You are to stay right here beside me!” His desire to protect his family was so great that it made him fierce. When Marie Josephine fell against a boulder, he caught her up and carried her toward a faint, flickering white spot, which was the light at the bow of Anastasius Grubb’s rowboat.

Grubb’s deep voice boomed softly through the still air.

“They’re coming. One of my men from the schooner has been on the ground, listening. It means hurry. He’s heard horses’ hoofs. Here you, boy, I’ll take the little girl. Humphrey, you—Good! That’s it. You help the woman, and you, shepherd, take the boy Grigge and get away as quick as you can, or your lives will not be worth a ha’penny.”

The water splashed about them as they waded to the rowboat, which was resting in shallow water. Strong arms caught them, and in little more than a breath they were seated close together, Denise with her mother’s arms about her, Hortense and Marie Josephine and CÉcile huddled together in a tense embrace. The schooner waited for them just beyond, through the mist.

There had been no time to say good-by. Marie Josephine dashed the tears from her eyes, leaning forward.

“Dian,” she called softly. “Dian, Dian, Dian!” Then she took the faded gold flower, which she had gathered on the hill road a few hours before, from the belt of her dirty smock and threw it toward the shore. It fell at Dian’s feet, where he stood with Jean and Grigge close beside him.

“You will come back, all of you, Little Mademoiselle,” he said. In his eyes was the light which they all knew so well; not even the mist could hide it. He stooped and picked up the flower. It was a lily of France.