During the chief part of the day Gautran concealed himself in the woods. Twice had he ventured to present himself to his fellow--creatures. He was hungry, and in sore need of food, and he went to a wayside inn, and called for cold meat and bread and brandy.

"Can you pay for it?" asked the innkeeper suspiciously.

Gautran threw down a gold piece. The innkeeper took it, bit it, turned it over and over, rang it on the wooden table, and then set the food before Gautran.

The murderer ate ravenously; it was the first sufficient meal he had eaten for days. The innkeeper gave him his change, and he ordered more meat and brandy, and paid for them. While he was disposing of this, two men came up, eyed him, and passed into the inn; Gautran was eating at a little table in the open air.

Presently the innkeeper came out and looked at him; then the innkeeper's wife did the same; then other men and women came and cast wrathful glances upon him.

At first he was not conscious that he was being thus observed, he was so ravenously engaged; but his hunger being appeased, he raised his head, and saw seven or eight persons standing at a little distance from him, and all with their eyes fixed upon his face.

"What are you staring at?" he cried. "Did you never see a hungry man eat before?"

They did not answer him, but stood whispering among themselves.

The idea occurred to Gautran to take away with him a supply of food, and he called to the innkeeper to bring it to him. Instead of doing so, the innkeeper removed the plates and glasses in which the meal had been served. Having done this, he joined the group, and stood apart from Gautran, without addressing a word to him.

"Do you hear me?" shouted Gautran. "Are you deaf and dumb?"

"Neither deaf nor dumb," replied the innkeeper; "we hear you plain enough."

"Bring me the bread and meat, then," he said.

"Not another morsel," said the innkeeper. "Be off with you."

"When I get the food."

"You will get none here--nor would you have had bite or sup if I had known."

"Known what?" demanded Gautran fiercely. "Is not my money as good as another man's?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because there is blood upon it."

If this did not convince him that his name was known and execrated, what next transpired would have enlightened him. The innkeeper's wife came out with a glass and two plates in her hands.

"Are these the things," she asked of her husband, "the monster has been eating out of?"

"Yes," replied the innkeeper.

She dashed them to the ground and shivered them to pieces, and the onlookers applauded the act.

"Why do you do that, Mistress?" cried Gautran.

"So that honest men shall not be poisoned," was the answer, "by eating out of a murderer's dish or putting their lips to a murderer's glass."

And the onlookers again applauded her, and kicked away the pieces.

Gautran glared at the men and women, and asked:

"Who do you take me for?"

"For Gautran. There is but one such monster. If you do not know your own face, look upon it there."

She pointed to the window, and there he beheld his own portrait, cut out of an illustrated newspaper, and beneath it his name--"GAUTRAN," to which had been added, in writing, the words, "The Murderer of Madeline, the Flower-Girl."

He could not read the inscription, but he correctly divined its nature. The moment before he saw his portrait, it had entered his mind to deny himself; he recognised now how futile the attempt would be.

"What if I am Gautran?" he exclaimed. "Do you think the law would set me free if I was guilty?"

To which the innkeeper's wife replied:

"You have escaped by a quibble. You are a murderer, and you know yourself to be one."

"Mistress," he said, "if I had you alone I would make you smart."

"How does that sound, men?" cried the innkeeper's wife with excited gestures. "Is it the speech of an innocent man? He would like to get me alone. Yes, he got one poor girl alone, and we know what became of her. The coward! the murderer! Hunt him away, neighbours. It is a disgrace to look upon him."

They advanced towards Gautran threateningly, and he drew his knife and snapped it open.

"Who will be the first?" he asked savagely, and seeing that they held together, he retreated backwards, with his face to them, until a turn in the road hid them from his sight. Then he fled into the woods, and with wild cries slashed the trees with his knife, which he had sharpened in the early morning.

On the second occasion he presented himself at a cottage door, with the intention of begging or buying some food. He knocked at the door, and not receiving an answer, lifted the latch. In the room were two children--a baby in a cradle, and a five-year-old boy sitting on the floor, playing with a little wooden soldier. Looking up, and seeing the features of the ruffian, the boy scrambled to his feet, and rushing past Gautran, ran screaming down the road. Enraged almost to madness, Gautran ran after the child, and catching him, tossed him in the air, shouting:

"What! you, too, brat? This for your pains!"

And standing over the child, was about to stamp upon him, when he found himself seized by the throat. It was the father, who, hearing the child's screams, came up just in time to save him. Then ensued a desperate struggle, and Gautran, despite his boast to the Advocate, found that he had met more than his match. He was beaten to the ground, lifted, and thrown into the air, as he had thrown the child. He rose, bruised and bleeding, and was slinking off, when the man cried:

"Holy Mother! it is the murderer, Gautran!"

Some labourers who were coming across the fields, were attracted by the scuffle, and the father called out to them:

"Here is Gautran the murderer, and he has tried to murder my child!"

This was enough for them. They were armed with reaping-hooks, and they raced towards Gautran with loud threats. They chased him for full a mile, but he was fleeter of foot than they, and despair gave him strength. He escaped them, and sank, panting, to the ground.

The Advocate had spoken truly. There was no safety for him. He was known for miles round, and the people were eager for vengeance. He would hide in the woods for the rest of the day. There was but one means of escape for him. He must seek some distant spot, where he and his crime were unknown. But to get there he would be compelled to pass through villages in which he would be recognised. It was necessary that he should disguise himself. In what way could this be done? He pondered upon it for hours. In the afternoon he heard the muttering of the thunder in the distant mountains.

"There's a storm coming," he said, and he raised his burning face to meet the welcome rain. But only a few heavy drops fell, and the wind moaned through the woods as if in pain. Night stole upon him swiftly, and wrapt him in horrible darkness. He bit his lips, he clenched his hands, his body shook with fear. Solitude was worse than death to him. He tried to sleep; in vain. Terrible images crowded upon him. Company he must have, at all hazards. Suddenly he thought of John Vanbrugh, the man he had met the night before on the hill not far from the Advocate's house. This man had not avoided him. He would seek him again, and, if he found him, would pass the night with him. So resolving, he walked with feverish steps towards the hill on which John Vanbrugh was keeping watch.