"Stop, stop, mister!" cried Tad. "Wait for me. I'll just run on board for my things, and I'll be with you in a minute. I promise I won't tell the skipper nothin', as you say he ain't no friend of yours."
Tad kept his word, and in three minutes he had joined the Frenchman and little Phil, and thereby started on a new and perilous road in his journey of life.
A SLAVE INDEED
OLD Renard, as Tad soon found, was a Jack-of-all-trades. He could turn his hand to most things, though he did no sort of work well or thoroughly. But he was a bit of a tinker, a basket-maker, and mender; he could do a bit of rough cobbling for any villager who wanted a pair of boots mended; he could put a passable patch in a pair of trousers; and he could even play the dentist after a fashion of his own, and take out teeth, often getting a sound tooth by mistake, and very cheerfully giving any amount of pain for his fee.
Then, too, he was a bit of a pedlar, and generally carried about with him a box of cheap jewellery, relics, and knick-knacks, on which, by aid of his glib tongue, he made a fair profit. He also sold patent pills and ointments and quack remedies to the ignorant folk, besides earning many a dishonest penny by the telling of their fortunes. But it was by the lads in his employ that he made the most regular part of his income, and Tad soon found that his new work was by no means a bed of roses, and that old Foxy was quite as fully bent upon making him serve with rigour, as were the old Egyptian task-masters with their Israelite bondsmen.
Every morning, early, Phil and Tad were sent out into the streets of any town in which they happened to be. Phil had his little organ and monkey Jacko, and Tad was obliged to carry a much larger and noisier instrument, which sent forth a hoarse mingling of howl and screech when he turned the stiff handle, eliciting much bad language from people condemned to listen to it.
Every day the lads were compelled to give their master a certain sum. Sometimes they earned a little more, sometimes less, but not a sou did he ever abate of the sum to be paid to him; and if the required amount were not forthcoming every night on their return, the boys met with punishment more or less severe, according to the state of intoxication reached at the time by their master. For Renard was a heavy drinker, though seldom helplessly drunk. His was a head accustomed to alcohol, and he could take a great deal without other results than to make him quarrelsome and violent. But in the later stages of his drinking bouts, he became utterly unreasonable and a perfect savage, beating the lads unmercifully, and using horrible language.
It was only when he was tired out, exhausted with his own violence, that he fell into a deep sleep, and then the two English boys dared to talk freely after they lay down to rest, exchanging confidences, telling their respective stories, and giving each other the sympathy which was now their only comfort.
To ensure that his little slaves did not run away from him, Renard had taken from them everything that belonged to them save the poor clothes they wore. He had sold their little possessions and pocketed the proceeds; and now he chuckled with an evil triumph as they left him in the morning, for he well knew that even if they tried to escape from the bondage in which he held them, they could not get far. Without money, or articles which they could turn into money, and also without friends—what could they do in a foreign land? Even the so-called musical instruments they carried were worthless, and no pawnbroker in his senses would have advanced ten centimes upon them.
So passed the days and weeks, and autumn merged into winter. Frost and sleet and bitter winds made the lives of the poor boys yet harder to bear.
Scantily fed, yet more scantily clothed, housed like dogs, their suffering was great, while old Foxy appeared to take a malicious pleasure in their misery, and taunted them cruelly when he saw them especially downhearted and sad.
At first Tad bore all these new troubles with a kind of dogged, stubborn patience. Even such a life as this, he told himself, was better than that he had led at home, and as he had made up his mind to rough it, rough it he would.
But after a while the growing brutality of Renard roused the lad's hatred and instinct of retaliation, and the man himself would have shrunk in startled horror, had he guessed what dark and murderous thoughts began to fill the brain of this poor, ill-used drudge of his.
But it never occurred to old Foxy that there might be danger to himself resulting from his treatment of the lads if he drove them to desperation. He had no notion of their doing anything worse than trying to run away, or possibly robbing him of food or a few sous; and if they did either of these things, he thought he knew how to deal with them.
Time went on, and now Christmas was close at hand: at least it wanted only ten days to the twenty-fifth, a festive season for many, but not for poor Phil and Tad. Poor gentle little Phil was sadder than ever now, for the great cold had killed Jacko, and the boy, who had dearly loved his little companion, grieved sorely over his loss, and clung the more closely to Tad as his only friend and sole comforter.
One day Renard and the lads were tramping along a high road, on their way to a place some miles away. Stopping to rest awhile and eat their poor dinner, they were joined by two men who were evidently known to Renard.
The newcomers, after a little talk, drew old Foxy away from the spot where the boys were seated munching their crusts and drinking cold barley coffee out of a bottle. Here the men were quite out of earshot, and a whispered conversation commenced, which seemed, from the mysterious faces and gestures of the speakers, to be of the utmost interest and importance.
Presently it appeared that the two men were to accompany Renard and his boys on their journey, for when dinner was over, all rose and walked together towards the town, which was reached about nightfall.
The lads slept on straw in a shed in the suburbs that night, and would have been thankful to rest undisturbed till morning, for they were very weary. But they were roused about midnight by their master's hissing whisper:
"Rise and come wid me, bote of you!"
Tad sat up staring straight before him, only half awake, while Phil rubbed his heavy eyes and groaned.
"Why," said Tad, "surely it's the middle of the night, master; what do you want with us? We are both tired and need to sleep."
"Hold dat tongue of yours, and get you up," replied Foxy sharply; "dat is all you have to do. And be queek if you would not haf the steek."
So very weary, and full of fear and foreboding, the boys rose and followed Foxy out into the road, where, much to their surprise, a light spring cart and good horse were awaiting them, the two strange men sitting in front.
"Now then, Renard," said Paul, the one who held the reins, "in with the children and yourself! The luggage is in already, you say? Good! Now are you ready?"
"They are all in, Paul," said Jean, his companion; "drive on, my friend; anyway it will be one o'clock before we get there."
Paul drew the whip across the horse's flanks, the animal sprang forward, fell into a spanking trot, and soon left the little town far behind.
WEAK YET SO STRONG
THE lads dared not exchange even so much as a whisper during their drive, for old Foxy was close beside them in the back of the cart. But both Phil and Tad felt that they had cause for dread now if never before. Anything so unusual as a midnight drive, in the company, too, of strangers, had never happened before, and the poor boys, as they thought over everything, realised that a crisis of some sort was at hand.
Of the two, Tad was the more miserable. With him, hitherto, temptation had invariably meant yielding, had brought fresh sin and new troubles. And now he feared lest once more he should fall and sink yet deeper in the mire.
Since Phil and he had been constant companions, Tad's conscience had once more awakened. He felt that Phil was a far better boy than he was himself, for in all the trials, the troubles, the miseries that had befallen this poor orphan child, he had not lost his honesty, his truthfulness, nor his simple faith in God.
Tad was conscious of this, and aware, too, for the first time for years, of a longing now and again to be a better lad, more like pure-hearted, gentle little Phil; for there was growing up in his heart for this friend and fellow-sufferer of his, a great love such as he had not hitherto thought he could feel for anyone.
The truest of all books tells us that even a child is known by his doings, whether they be pure and whether they be right; and Tad, so strong in his self-will, and so weak in temptation, had taken knowledge of his little friend, and had come to know that in this frail boy there was a certain moral strength wanting in himself.
And now an occasional glance at Phil's small, pale face as the white moonlight fell upon it set Tad wondering why this child was so different from himself, and whether the events of this night would bring to them both serious consequences, or leave them as they found them.
He was still deep in thought when the cart stopped. For some time it had been driven across what looked like a common, a wide open space, with no buildings of any sort upon it; but now the halt was made at a little gate, almost hidden by the bushy growth of underwood and young trees forming a copse, which began where the common ended, and which, though bare and leafless now, cast a deep shadow over the road.
In silence the driver and his companion got down from the front seat, and Renard and the boys from the back. Tad noticed that the man Paul took from under the seat a small canvas bag, in which some things rattled, and also a little parcel which he slipped into his coat pocket. The boys looked at each other, a vague horror and fear dawning in their faces—a foreboding of danger.
Summoning up his sinking courage, Tad touched Renard on the arm, and said in a whisper:
"Master, where may this path lead, and what are we goin' to do?"
Renard turned upon him sharply.
"Dat's not you beezness," he replied. "You keep wid me and speak not." And taking the boys by the arm, one on each side, he strode on behind the driver and his mate, their feet making no sound on the moss-grown pathways along the deep shadows of which Paul now and again turned the light of a lantern, so that the little party could see where they were going.
Presently the copse ended in another gateway which led into a garden, and here, with flower-beds and ornamental trees all round it, in a situation which, in summer time, must have been beautiful indeed, stood an old-fashioned, quaint, two-storeyed house. A wing, on the right of the building, extended as far as what apparently was a stable yard, for it was divided from the garden by a wall and a high gate. As the men and lads stood—still within the shadow of the trees—looking about them, the deep growl and bark of a large dog sounded from the further side of the wall.
"Hark at that!" whispered Renard to Paul. "It must cease or our journey is fruitless."
"It shall cease," replied the man; "have I not come prepared?"
And he drew the parcel from his pocket, and out of it a piece of red, raw meat.
Slipping off his shoes, and signing to his companions to follow his example, he trod noiselessly across the gravel-walk, and reaching the gate in a few strides, flung the meat over.
There was a little fierce rush and growl, a savage snap of powerful jaws and click of hungry teeth, then a muffled, choking howl, a smothered groan, and silence.
After waiting a minute or two, Paul stole back to the little group still standing in the deep shadow.
"That one will bark no more," remarked he. "Now come—there is nothing to fear. The monsieur and his lady are quite old, and there are only women servants in the place. Follow me."
And Paul led the way round the house to the back, where a little scullery or wash-house was built out into the garden, with the kitchen apparently behind it. In the wall of the scullery, a small window was open.
Paul now whispered a few words in Renard's ear. And the latter nodded and said, "Oui, parfaitement," then turned to the boys, who stood by wondering what was coming next.
For a minute or so, old Foxy looked first at one of the lads, then at the other, then back at the window, as though measuring with his eye the available space. At last, making up his mind, he leaned forward, and spoke in Phil's ear:
"Philipe, you shall go in dere, and tro' de house, and you weel for us open de big door or a weendow if de door be deeficult. Hear you?"
Phil did not answer.
Tad's scared eyes were fixed upon his friend's face, and he saw the thin cheeks blanch, but the boy's gaze, fixed upon Foxy, was clear and steadfast, and his pale lips were resolute.
"Ma foi! Why answer you not, Philipe?" said his master, after a moment's silence. "Hear you?"
"Yes, master, I hear," replied the boy, in a low, firm voice that somehow thrilled Tad to the heart.
"Den do wat I tell. Go in dere!" And Renard pointed a crooked forefinger at the window. "Queek, queek!" added he, as Phil did not stir, "or you weel be sorry." And a threatening look in the man's dark, evil face gave emphasis to his words.
Tad held his breath with a strange, mingled feeling of horror, wonder, and admiration, as he saw his little companion draw himself up, and look straight and unfaltering into Foxy's green eyes. Another moment, and the childish voice said firmly:
"No, master, I will not go."
"Wat is dat you say? You weel not?" said Foxy in an angry whisper. "But wait a leetle, it am you dat shall pay later, when old Renard give you de steek." Then he turned to Tad and said: "You did hear me wat I say to Philipe; well now I tell you same. Go you in dere and open to us, Edouard."
Tad met his cruel master's wicked, green eyes, then glanced at Paul and Jean, who were impatiently waiting. The lad's courage was a poor one at best, and though he well knew that the crime of burglary was intended, and that he was required to help the burglars, he would never have found strength to withstand the pressure put upon him, had not Phil just at that moment laid his little, frail hand on his friend's shoulder and said:
"Brave it out, Tad! Don't give in!" And then Tad heard the boy add under his breath: "O Lord, please help us, and save us from being wicked."
"Wed you go in dere?" hissed Foxy again.
"Will I?" repeated Tad, shamed out of his cowardice by Phil's example. "Will I, master? No, then—I just won't, so there!"
GOOD-BYE TO FOXY
RENARD turned in a white rage towards the men, Paul and Jean, who were standing impatiently waiting for the result of the parley with the two lads.
"What can I do?" he whispered, his utterance thick with passion. "One cannot use force; there might be an outcry which would rouse the whole house. What then is to be done?"
Paul advanced a step and pushed him aside.
"Since you have failed, Renard, in your half of the bargain," said he, "you cannot expect to share in the profits. Go away now, you and these useless boys of yours."
"But Paul," exclaimed Foxy, "did I not—"
"No," interrupted Paul, "I will hear nothing."
And Jean added:
"Enough, Renard; go without more words. Your belongings which are in the cart we will leave at No. 9 in the village to-morrow. There—that is all we have to say to you—now go."
With a snarl of savage disappointment and rage, Renard, taking the boys by the arm, led them away down the dark, shady walk by which they had come, and out once more into the road, where, under the shadow of two great trees, stood the cart and the patient horse.
"Oh, but you weel pay for dis, mine sweet boys!" muttered Renard, as he dragged the reluctant lads along. "Yes, you weel pay for dis—as de English say—tro' de nose. Dis night you have make me lose lot of moneys, and old Renard, he forgives not; dat you shall remember for effer. Amen."
A village well-known to Foxy was not far distant, and towards this he now led the two boys, muttering awful threats in mingled French and English, and swearing horribly under his breath. When they hung back, or for a moment struggled to free themselves, his cruel clutches forced them on.
In this fashion the village was reached, a place which at this hour looked like a little city of the dead, for there was not a light in the one straggling street of which the hamlet consisted. But Renard went straight to a small house standing back a few paces from the crooked thoroughfare in a narrow strip of weed-grown garden. Here he knocked in a peculiar way—not at the door, but at the window, and in a minute or two the door was opened to him. A few words passed between him and the man who opened the door, then Renard and the boys were shown into a room on the ground floor, where were two straw mattresses and a couple a three-legged stools and a table.
Setting down the candle which the owner of the house had given him, Foxy locked the door, and pulled off his rusty overcoat, first drawing from one of the pockets a coil of stout cord. Then sitting down on one of the stools, he proceeded to twist and knot this cord, until he had fashioned out of it a kind of rough cat-o'-nine-tails or scourge. But he glanced up now and again, and the malignant look on his ugly face—a mingling of frown and leer, full of evil triumph and covert menace—sent a shudder of fearful expectation through the chilled forms of the two lads huddled together on one of the straw mattresses.
In a few minutes the instrument of punishment was completed, and Renard, getting up from his seat, came towards the bed, and brandishing his scourge, said to Tad:
"Now, Edouard, hark to me! You shall take this wiep and you weel beat Philipe teel I tell you assez—enough. And as for you, Philipe, put off your coat, dat do wiep may work well. So! Allons! Begeen, and forget not dat you master is—"
"What!" cried Tad, aghast. "What, master! You want me to set upon this poor little chap and flog him? You don't mean it—you can't!"
"Mais certainement I mean it!" replied Foxy, showing his teeth. "Take dis wiep of cords and beat well Philips, or—" and the man's face assumed a yet more evil and threatening aspect.
"Don't anger him no more, dear Tad," said Phil in a whisper. "Do as he tells you. I can bear it. I ain't afeared of a thrashin' that I haven't deserved. There, I'm quite ready, and you'll see I won't cry nor make a sound."
But Tad that night had learned a great lesson while he stood with the burglars outside the little window of the outhouse. He had seen this gentle little lad brave the utmost that three villains could do to him, rather than commit a crime in obedience to their commands—a crime of which, but for Phil's example, Tad felt that he himself should certainly have been guilty.
And now—could he inflict pain upon this brave child, for fear of anything Renard could do? No—the lesson had not been lost upon the lad. True he had been on the downward track ever since he ran away from home, but here was the chance for a step up. Once more a chance lay before him, and his resolve was taken.
Pulling himself together, he rose and faced Renard, looking full in the cruel green eyes without flinching.
"Master," said he firmly, "Phil is little, and I'm big, and what's more, he haven't done nothin' wrong, and I ain't a-goin' to lay a finger on him—not for you nor no one. I won't—no matter what you say nor what you do."
For a minute old Foxy stared at the lad, hardly able to believe his own ears. But when Tad repeated: "I wouldn't do master, not if it were ever so," the man raised his sinewy right arm and with a blasphemous oath struck him down upon the mattress where Phil was lying. Then snatching up the scourge which he had dropped for a moment in the surprise of Tad's refusal to obey him, he began to use it upon both the boys, Tad managing to cover his little friend, now and again, with his own broader back, thus shielding him from many a blow.
The flogging went on till Renard's arm was tired and weak. Then he flung the instrument of torture aside, and going back to the corner where he had thrown his coat, he drew out of one of its capacious pockets a bottle of spirit, and sitting down upon the second mattress, began to drink, muttering ominously the while.
We have said that, as a rule, Foxy only became more excited and furious the more he took, and that he managed to stop short of the helpless stage. But this night, either because he was more weary than usual, or that he had a greater craving for the stimulant in which he habitually indulged, he went on drinking steadily until he passed from the raving and excited stage into a drunken stupor, and at last rolled over on the straw couch quite unconscious, the now empty bottle escaping from his listless hand.
For a little while Tad and Phil lay still. Sore and aching all over, they had eagerly watched their master in the various stages of his intoxication, and now they half feared lest he should be only shamming, to see what they would do.
But at last his stertorous breathing convinced the lads that he was in a stupor. Tad was the first to sit up, and Phil, glancing at him, was frightened at the expression of his friend's face. The eyes were hard and sullen, the mouth rigid, and a dogged scowl was sot deep between the brows.
"Now at last," said Tad with a gasp, "we can take some kind of revenge upon that brute for all he's made us suffer. I'd like to kill him—I would; he deserves it. But I suppose we must be content with robbin' him. Where does he keep the tin, Phil?"
The younger lad caught Tad's arm with a look of fear and horror. "Are you crazy, Tad?" he whispered. "Do you want to be as wicked as he is? After standin' out agen bein' burglars, are we goin' to be common thieves! Think, Tad—only think a moment! You must be well-nigh off your head, dear old boy, to speak of such a thing."
"But we may never have such a chance again, Phil," said Tad.
"Yes, that's true; and so let's clear out, and run away from Foxy. Better starve or die of cold alone and out in the open than live longer with this brute. Come, Tad—come quick, afore he wakes up."
"But we can't get out," whispered the elder lad. "Foxy locked the door, and the key's in his right trouser pocket, and he's lyin' on that side; we can't get it nohow."
"Then we'll get out at the winder," replied Phil. "See, it opens down the middle, and we can just squeeze through. Be quick, Tad; Foxy's snorin' like a hog now, but he may wake at any time."
Picking up their coats and caps, the boys opened the window, and just managed to get through, though for Tad it was a pretty tight fit.
Then away they went, lame, battered, and sore with their recent blows, but running at their best pace down the dark, crooked street, pausing not even to take breath, until they found themselves well outside the village, with miles of quiet open country stretching away before them, and a faint dawn just streaking the far-off east.
A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY
"THERE'S one thing I wish we'd been able to do," said Phil, as soon as he could get breath enough to speak.
"And what's that?" asked Tad.
"Warn the people at that house we went to rob, and let 'em know there was burglars about," replied Phil. "I never thought of it till now, but we might have set up a screech or a loud whistle just to wake folks, and maybe frighten Paul and Jean and Foxy."
"Why, you silly, we'd only have been murdered if we'd done that," said Tad.
"All the same," rejoined Phil the uncompromising, "I think we ought to have done it."
"Well, we can't help ourselves now," remarked Tad, with a sigh of relief, for his was not a martyr's spirit, and it had never occurred to him to reproach himself until Phil suggested that they had neglected their duty.
"No," he repeated, "we can't help ourselves now; it's hours since we left them fellows, and any mischief as was to be done has been done already. So it's no good goin' back, to say nothin' of our bein' sure to meet Foxy."
Phil shuddered.
"We mustn't get into his hands no more, whatever happens," said he; "but he'll try and catch us, you may be sure, Tad."
"Yes," assented Tad, "we know too much about him not to be dangerous now we've run away. So of course he'll want to find us, and we'll have to look out."
"We'd better not keep to the high roads in the daytime," said Phil; "if we do, he's sure to track us sooner or later."
"The thing is, what can we do? Where can we go?" muttered Tad more to himself than to his companion. "Have you any money, Phil?"
"Not a sou, Tad."
"Nor I. And how we're to get food and shelter, or find work to keep us, goodness knows."
"God knows," corrected Phil gravely, "and it's a comfort He does know. But now come on, Tad; we must put some miles between us and old Foxy afore the next few hours is over."
For another half-hour they trudged along the road, talking busily, and trying to form some plan of action for the future. By this time the sun was rising, and the tardy winter morn had begun.
"We must take to the fields now," said Phil. "We mustn't be seen on the road by any folks goin' to market, for old Foxy will be sure to ask everybody he meets if they've seen us, and if they had, why, it would end in our bein' nabbed. Come along, Tad!"
So the boys left the highway, and clambering over a gate, walked along a strip of low marsh-land, which was, however, dry now with the frost.
Here, sheltered from view by the hedge, they followed the windings of the road for some distance, feeling quite safe. But as the morning advanced, and the excitement of their escape subsided, the pangs of hunger and thirst became almost intolerable. And when they spied in the distance a little house standing among trees, they resolved to go there and beg for something to eat.
As they approached nearer, they saw that the house was not an ordinary cottage, but a substantial and neatly built, though small, building of two storeys. It had a stable and coach-house at the back, and a little yard where cocks and hens were crowing and clucking over a feed of grain just thrown out to them.
A pale, dark-eyed, sad-faced woman answered the timid knock at the door which Tad gave.
"What would you, my children?" she asked gently. "You look weary and ill. What ails you? Tell me!" And her kind eyes rested with a wondering pity upon Phil, whose thin, patient, white little face appealed to her motherly heart.
"We are starving, madame," said Tad, in the queer French he had picked up during his short stay in France; "and we have not a sou to buy bread. Will you, of your goodness, give us something to eat, that we may have strength to pursue our journey?"
"Oui, certainement," replied the woman kindly. "Come into my kitchen, children; there sit down by the hearth, and warm yourselves, while I make ready for you."
Soon a plentiful meal of hot milk and bread, and thick pancakes of buckwheat flour, was put before them. As the famished lads ate and drank their fill, their hospitable hostess paused now and again in her work, to smile at them approvingly, and heap their plates, and replenish their cups with a fresh supply of food and drink.
At last the cravings of appetite were satisfied, and seeing how weary and sleepy the boys looked, the good woman said:
"Listen, my children; I can see that you need rest; indeed one would think you had had no sleep all night. Now there is clean straw laid on the floor of my apple room, at the back of the house. Would you not like to lie down there and rest—both of you—for a few hours?"
"Ah yes, indeed we should, madame!" cried Tad.
"And thank you, oh, thank you for your goodness!" said Phil, glancing up gratefully with wistful, moistened eyes. For after all that the boys had known of late of hardship, privation, and above all of cruelty—they could hardly accept without tears, the motherly kindness of this gentle-hearted stranger.
She led them to the back of the house, and opening a door, ushered them into the little room where the winter fruit stores were kept. On shelves round the walls were arranged, in tidy rows, on clean paper, rosy-cheeked apples, and hard, sound, brownish-green baking pears, while on the straw in one corner reposed several enormous golden pumpkins. Dried herbs of many kinds hung in bunches from strings carried across the room just below the rafters of the low roof, and little lath boxes of various seeds had a small shelf all to themselves. But on the floor, at the corner of the room furthest from the door, was a thick mass of fresh straw and hay, dry and fragrant, and to this the woman pointed.
"Lie down there, my children," she said, "and sleep as long as you will."
As they crept thankfully into their cosy bed, she went and fetched a horse-blanket and covered them carefully with such sweet, womanly tenderness, that Phil caught her hand and kissed it, and Tad looked up into the kind, sad face, his own softened and made beautiful by gratitude. Then with a gentle "Sleep well, my children!" their new friend left them to their repose.
The boys must have slept about eight hours, for when they awoke it seemed to be late in the afternoon. The sun was no longer shining in through the slats of the shutter window; indeed the daylight appeared already to be on the wane. Moreover, a voice which somehow was familiar, and dreamily associated in their minds with something distinctly unpleasant, sounded in their ears, and presently roused them to full consciousness.
"Hark!" whispered Tad. "What's that?"
And the boy sat up, the old, fearful, hunted look coming back into the face just lately so serene in sleep.
"It's someone talkin' with the woman, ain't it?" said Phil.
"Yes—but don't you know the voice?" gasped Tad. "It's that man Paul, one of them burglars."
"What shall we do?" cried Phil. "Has he come after us?"
"No, no," rejoined Tad; "but p'raps this is where he lives, and maybe he's just got home. Listen, Phil; we'd better be quite sure it's he, and if the woman's told him anything, afore we makes up our mind what to do."
Still as mice, the lads lay buried in the straw under the blanket, and listened breathlessly. Part of the talk they could not hear, only a low murmur of two voices reaching their ears.
But at last the man's voice said distinctly:
"Enough, Claudine; why waste my time and patience with those everlasting remonstrances of thine? See here, could all thy industry or mine, year in, year out, win such a pretty bauble as this?"
Here there was a pause, as though the man were showing the woman something. Then he went on:
"Let me put it about thy neck, my dear! Why dost thou draw back? It is but a plain gold cross and chain such as any woman may wear; take it!"
"Never, Paul," replied the woman's voice passionately. "Never will I wear stolen goods. Oh, my husband!—" And here her voice broke, and she went on sobbingly, "thou art breaking my heart and spoiling my life and thine own. Think how happy we were only a short time ago, before the evil days of thy friendship with Jean Michel and his companions! Why not be content with honest labour, instead of living in fear and remorse as we must? For this is now the third time that thou hast returned from a bad night's work, bringing me gifts which I can but refuse as accursed things."
Paul laughed a little hard laugh.
"The things I bring home are but a little love-token for thee, Claudine. The rest of our booty finds its way to the smelting-pot of our Hebrew friends in the town, and thenceforth tells no tales. And as for my safety, wife, no fears. We work in crape masks, and we cover our tracks with skill. The only danger is now and then from our accomplices."
"And how so?" questioned Claudine.
Then the man told his wife how he and Jean had been joined by Renard and his lads on the previous night, and how, at the last moment, the boys had refused to do their master's bidding, so that Renard and they had been ordered off as worse than useless for the job they had in hand.
"And the danger is," added Paul, "lest that dirty old rascal or one of the brats should carry some story about us to the police, just out of spite. As it was, we had a great deal of needless trouble. Had the boys been content to enter and open to us, all would have been so simple, so easy. But since they refused, we were forced to break in, and this made noise, and some of the household were roused, so that we could not get all we had hoped; and this, after our precautions, and our clever poisoning of the dog, was too bad! Ah!" added Paul fiercely. "Could I but lay hands on those two little rascals, I would teach them to disobey again!"
"Did they then refuse to enter and open to thee and thy companions, Paul?" asked the woman.
"Yes, they said they would not go, and even the threats of their master availed not; and we could not use force for fear of an outcry."
"Tell me, what like were the lads?" inquired Claudine. "Were they small or big? French or—"
"Why, wife, what makes then so curious about a matter that, of a truth, concerns thee not?" said Paul suspiciously. "Thou art never likely to set eyes upon the young miscreants. That greedy old bag-of-bones—Renard, the thief, mountebank, tailor, tinker, and what not—has got the lads, body and soul, and he is not likely to let them out of his sight."
"Are they French?" asked Claudine again.
"No, certainly not. With their master they spoke the English tongue, and a hard, jaw-breaking, cursed language it is too. One of the boys was little with a pale face, and the other taller, with a big round head like one of thine own pumpkins, Claudine. Ah, let me but catch them, the young monkeys! And in the space of ten minutes, no one should know them for the same children."
To this the woman made no reply that the lads could hear; but they had heard enough to make them look at each other in renewed fear and horror.
"We can't stay here another moment, Phil," whispered Tad. "We must go."
The slatted, wooden shutter which served as a window was only fastened by a hook on one side. Tad stole across the straw-covered floor, slipped the hook out of the ring, and the shutter swung open. Swiftly and noiselessly the boys got out, and found themselves in a small back garden communicating by a gate with the yard, and divided only by a low fence from a lane, the tall, bare trees of which they could see rising above the fence. To clamber over, and drop down into the lane on the other side, was the work of a moment. Then away—away, in the fading light, as though flying for their lives—sped the two poor lads, once more fugitives and vagabonds in a strange land.
UNEXPECTED NEWS
THE plentiful meal and long sleep obtained through Claudine's hospitality and kindness, had done the lads good service. And when they recovered from their excitement and first dread of pursuit, and found themselves clear of the neighbourhood of the house, they felt strong enough to push on at a fair pace. The darkness was coming so rapidly, that the boys thought they might with perfect safety keep to the road. Along the road accordingly they trudged, looking carefully about them, however, and ready to hide under a hedge or crouch in a ditch, or dodge behind a tree at the wayside, at the least sound or threatening of danger.
It was about eight o'clock, and they were beginning to think of making a halt for a rest of half an hour or so, when a slow, heavy rumbling of wheels along the highway made them look round.
"Why, Phil," said Tad, "it's some of them travellin' carts the tramps and gipsies use, ain't it?"
"Looks like 'em," replied Phil. "I wonder if the people would give us a lift just to the next town or wherever it is they're goin'!"
"Let's ask 'em," said Tad. "See, there's the first cart quite near."
"Shall we go and speak to that man walkin' at the horse's head?" asked Phil.
"You go, Phil. You speak their lingo best," rejoined Tad.
Phil accordingly left his companion's side, and stepping into the middle of the road, bade the man a very courteous good evening, adding:
"My friend and I are very weary, monsieur, having come far. Would you have the goodness to suffer us to ride in one of your carts for a little way?"
"Certainly, my child, with pleasure," replied the old fellow kindly. "Get in here. My wife Sophie and a friend of hers are inside, but there is still plenty of room. The carts coming behind are for the most part full of children and the things we are taking to sell at a fair."
So saying, the old man stopped the horse, and the lads clambered into the cart, where they were kindly received by the two women, who were busily employed weaving rush baskets by the light of a little oil lamp.
"Sit down there, my children," said Sophie, pointing to a sort of bench which extended the whole length of the cart, like the seat of an omnibus.
"Maybe the boys are hungry," suggested the other woman, "and we cannot get supper till we find a good place for camping out."
"Give them some bread to stay their hunger till then, Pelagie," answered Sophie.
And presently the lads were each munching away at a substantial hunch of bread sprinkled with salt.
On jolted the cart, followed by three others, but it was ten o'clock that night before the caravan came to a place suitable for an encampment. Tad and Phil, grateful for the kindness shown them, and delighted to make themselves useful, helped to unharness the horses, and tether them to stakes which they drove into the ground. They brought water from a little stream, and gathered together, from under the trees by the roadside, a quantity of dead wood for a fire.
The spot that had been chosen for camping out, was a tract of waste land between two hills of limestone rock. The place was strewn with stones, but was quite dry, and the fire blazed up merrily, shedding a welcome warmth, for the night was cold.
Over this fire, as soon as it burned clear and hot, the huge soup-pot was hung. Into it had been put a big lump of the prepared spiced and salted lard (a mixture of beef and hog's fat clarified and cured) of which the Norman peasantry make their usual soup.
Then as the grease melted in the pot, vegetables of several sorts were added, but chiefly potatoes, onions, and winter cabbage, with all the stale crusts and odds and ends of food remaining over from the day's rations. The pot was then filled up with water, a handful of salt mixed with peppercorns being thrown in. And soon this wonderful mixture was simmering musically over the fire, emitting a very savoury odour.
While waiting for supper to be ready, some of the grown-up people belonging to the caravan drew to the fire, and sat down on the short, dry stubble.
The children were already asleep in the waggons. A few of the women took out their knitting and worked their long needles rapidly, the bright steel gleaming in the fitful flare of the firelight. The men fed their horses, for there was not grass enough for their food, and went round looking for more wood to feed the fire, or sat in the circle, shaping garden sticks and broom-handles to sell at the fair.
As for Tad and Phil, when there seemed to be nothing further for them to do, they came and joined the cosy party round the fire, seating themselves between kind old Sophie and Pelagie.
At first there was a great deal of jabbering going on, but nothing to arrest the attention of the lads.
But suddenly Phil caught Tad's arm, and whispered, "Listen, Tad! What's the woman saying?"
Tad listened accordingly, and having learned enough now of the Normandy patois French to understand what was said, when he paid close attention, he at once became interested. For a woman of the party had said to old Sophie:
"I forgot to ask thee, Sophie, did a letter reach thee from Angleterre, from thy daughter, as we passed through the town?"
"Yes, Dieu merci, it did, and it was a letter that made my old heart glad."
"And how so, Sophie, if one may ask?"
"Ay, tell us!" cried another voice. "Thou knowest well, good mother, that all that interests thee has interest also for us."
"After the last letter that came, I told you, did I not, my friends," said the old woman, "how unhappy my poor child was?"
"Yes, but not wherefore she was so vexed in spirit," replied Bernadine, a big woman with a baby in her arms. "Was that English gipsy husband of hers unkind to her?"
"No, no, Bernadine; from the time that Jake the gipsy saw and loved my Marie when she was in service over there, he has been as kind as any husband could be, and for love of him she is more than half English already; but—"
"Ay, good mother, tell us! What?"
But what the good mother had to tell we must leave to the next chapter.
OLD MEMORIES AND A NEW IDEA
"SHE lost her little one when it was six months old," answered the old woman, "and she was grieving and pining, and well-nigh heart-broken, when one day le bon Dieu sent her, in a strange, unlooked-for way, another child!"
"How so, Sophie? Tell us, good mother!"
The old woman went on:
"It was like this, my friends. The gipsy troupe into which my daughter Marie married, were encamped one day on a common, and thither came a lad with an infant in his arms. Towards evening, he sauntered up to the camp and met Marie, and asked her if she would take care of the baby for a while, he having business elsewhere. Marie gladly took the child, having no thought then but to give it back when its young guardian returned.
"But night came on, and the old gipsy chief gave the word to move on, and the boy had not returned. And then arose the great longing in Marie's heart to keep the baby boy—did I say it was a boy?—to comfort her for the loss of her own infant. She yielded to the temptation, and the troupe left the neighbourhood that night, the stranger child with them, and Marie's sore heart has healed now she has a little one in her arms again. Albeit she writes me that she cannot but think sometimes of the child's mother, who may be sorrowing even yet over the loss of her baby."
During the story Tad clutched Phil's arm.
"Only think of that," he whispered. "Ain't it just wonderful?"
"Hush," said Phil, "let's hear it out."
"Said thy daughter nought of coming over to France to see thee?" asked the big Bernadine.
"Pardon; yes she did say that she and her husband were trying to scrape together money enough to bring her over, for it is three full years since she left with the English family, and she is a dutiful daughter, God be thanked, and would fain see her old parents again."
"And will it be soon, thinkest thou, good mother?"
"I cannot tell for sure, but it may be soon. The troupe are near Southampton now, and thence, I have heard, sail many English vessels for la France. But who knows if Marie will get the money for her voyage?"
"Knowest thou, mother Sophie," said a man who had not hitherto spoken a word, "that if Marie be caught by the police of the country, she could be severely punished for stealing that child?"
"Ah, sayest thou so, Pierre?"
"Yes, it is a dangerous thing to do, and I wonder much that she has escaped till now."
"She wrote me that, for safety's sake, she burned all the little boy's clothes, and dressed him in her own baby's things. And also, for the first month, she coloured his skin and hair with walnut juice and water, to make him dark like her own child. After that the troupe moved so far away, that she thought all danger was past."
"Without doubt she was right," said Pierre; "indeed it has proved so, since—but stay—who is that approaching us across the open, from the road?"
"It is a man—a stranger," said Bernadine.
"An old man he looks, by the light of the moon," said Sophie.
"Perhaps he is cold and hungry," suggested old Jacques, Sophie's husband. "If so, he is welcome to a share of our fire and our supper."
But just then Tad glanced in the direction of the newcomer, and gave a smothered gasp.
"Oh look, Phil, look!" he said.
And Phil looked and rose instantly to his feet, followed by Tad. The younger boy turned to Sophie.
"Good mother, we thank and bless you for your goodness to us, poor stranger boys," he said, "and we ask of you one more favour. This man who now is coming towards us is a wicked, cruel master, from whom, after sore treatment, we have only just escaped. If he catches us, he will surely kill us. So we must go away at once, and we entreat you, betray us not. Say not that two boys were here but now. He cannot have seen us yet; so far we are safe; so, for the love of heaven, tell him naught."
"Fear not, my poor children, he shall know nothing from me, nor indeed from any of us; eh, my friends?"
"That is so, good mother."
"Then good-night, my boys, and may God guard you!"
The next moment the two lads, parting from the circle round the dancing firelight, had vanished into the darkness.
As the poor lads fled once more from the approach of the old enemy, they were at first almost in despair. And no wonder; for they had believed themselves out of reach of pursuit at last. And now to see that wicked old Foxy apparently tracking them like a sleuthhound, was a dreadful thing.
But as their fear gradually subsided, they began to feel that Renard's appearance among the French gipsies was no indication what over of his knowing where they (Tad and Phil) were; and that, had he seen them sitting with their hospitable entertainers round the fire, he would probably have been to the full as much surprised as they had been to see him.
But it gave the lads a renewed sense of danger to have caught sight, even for a moment, of the man who had shown himself so treacherous a companion, so cruel a master, and it was not strange that Tad presently said despondingly:
"It's no go, Phil, we'll never be safe till we're out of France."
"Out of France? That's easier said than done," rejoined Phil. "And how are we to get out of this country?"
"I don't know, I'm sure! That's the worst of it. We seem headed off all round. But I did hear that this road leads to St. Malo, and that English vessels is always comin' in and out of there. There may p'r'aps be some chance for us, Phil, if we get to St. Malo."
"That's just what old Foxy's reckonin' upon our thinkin'," replied Phil, "and that's why he's come along this road after us, I should say. And he'll have a much better chance to nab us down at St. Malo than he's had here in the country, where there's always places to hide in. It's risky, and just think how long we might have to stay in the town before we'd a chance of crossin' over to England—if ever the chance came at all."
"Ay, I didn't think of that," answered Tad. "I wish we was back in Granville, I do; I'd like to turn in our tracks this minute and go right back there. Renard would never think of our doin' that, and would go on to St. Malo lookin' for us. At Granville, p'raps we might see Captain Jeremiah Jackson again with his schooner; he that picked me up when I was floatin' about in a open boat."
"But dare you think of goin' back to England at all?" asked Phil. "After what you've told me, I shouldn't think you'd want to go home. Think of your stepmother, Tad, and the police that was after you for takin' away your little brother!"
In his longing to get away from the dangers and troubles that beset him in France, Tad had forgotten those that drove him from his native place, and were still awaiting him there. Now he was silent for some time, turning things over in his mind. What Phil said was true, only too true. Hard as things had been for him in France, they would be worse still in England, unless indeed he could do something to deserve and ensure a welcome at home, and also prove to the police that he had not been guilty of any crime with regard to his little brother.
"You're right enough, Phil," he said at last. "There's one thing, and only one, that would make it possible for me to go home."
"And what's that?" asked Phil.
"Just this, kidnappin' that child again, and carryin' of him home to his mother."
Phil shook his head.
"That's a hard nut to crack," said he. "And I don't see much chance myself of your goin' to England now or ever, if it hangs on gettin' hold of the baby again. Oh Tad, what a pity you didn't begin your runnin' away from home quite by yourself; it's havin' had that baby for the one day, as has made all the mischief."
Again Tad was silent. Phil's words were quite true; he knew now how very dearly he had paid for that bit of revenge upon his stepmother. Once more he was thinking things over, and going back to the very beginning—to the wrong start he had made on that Sunday which now seemed so very long ago. The events of the last few days had worked a change in the boy. He was beginning dimly to see how, from first to last, he had been his own enemy, and how he had himself to thank for the worst of his misfortunes.
Phil's influence and example too had shown him, more clearly than he had ever perceived it before, the difference between right and wrong, while it strengthened the affection which he felt for this child, the reverence that he could not withhold, when he thought of the courageous soul in so frail a form.
By contrasting what he was beginning to know of himself with the estimate he had made of Phil's character, he could not help feeling what a cowardly, selfish, contemptible sort of a fellow he had been throughout.
"It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks," Jeremiah Jackson had said, and Tad had proved to his cost how true these words were. Just as some kinds of blindness can only be cured by the surgeon's knife, so there are some forms of blindness of the soul, for which the Great Physician has to use sharp remedies, ere it can see itself as it is, and turn repenting to Him Who alone giveth sight to the spiritually blind.
"I'm a bad lot, I am, Phil!" said the boy at length, after a long silence, during which he was taking stock of what he was worth, and finding how little it amounted to. "Yes, I'm a bad lot, Phil, more's the pity!"
"You've been awfully good and kind to me, Tad," replied Phil, turning towards him affectionately, and putting a confiding hand through his arm. "Yes, you've been like a brother to me, ever since that day at Granville when you give me and the monkey your baked dumplin'. What's that you're sayin', Tad dear? Do I love you? Rather! Of course I love you true and faithful, dear old man."
Tad gulped down a sob.
"I don't deserve it, Phil, and that's the truth," he said humbly; "but if you'll keep on doin' of it, I'll try to deserve it. There! That's a bargain!"
"Let's try and help each other to be good!" said Phil simply. "Mother used to tell me as how, if we chose, we might always have the Lord on our side. And if we did have Him, we was more than a match for any enemy. Do you remember that story in the Bible, Tad, about 'Lisha, when his enemies came and got all round the place where he was? There was chariots and horsemen and a great host—all sent to take that one poor feller. No wonder his servant was frightened and said, 'Alas, my master, how shall we do?' For thinks he to hisself, 'Here we are—the two of us—all by our lone; no one to care for us, nor no one to help us, and the enemy down there a-spreadin' hisself like a green baize.' Do you call to mind the story, Tad?"
"No; go on, Phil."
"Well," said Phil, "then what does 'Lisha do but pray to God to open the servant's eyes, and the answer to that there prayer must have come mighty quick, for all of a sudden, the man saw plain enough what he'd never thought of afore—that the mountain was full of chariots and horsemen of fire, round about 'Lisha; and that there was more friends than enemies; many more for than agen them. But as mother said," added Phil, "God's host were there afore the servant's eyes were opened, only he didn't know it. And that's how it is with us sometimes. We think we're all alone, because we don't see the chariots and horsemen of fire round about us, and we don't understand how much we may be helped, if we will, nor how ready the Lord is to hear and answer if we pray."
"I shouldn't wonder if you was right, Phil," said Tad; "howsumdever there ain't no 'Lisha nowadays, nor no chariots and horsemen of fire to come between old Foxy or Paul and us poor lads—worse luck! And when we can't see nothin', it's hard to believe that help's near. But now, Phil, I've got a idea, so just you listen and tell me what you think of it. Other things bein' equal, we'd like to leave France and get back to England, eh?"
"Yes," replied Phil, "I s'pose so."
"Right so far, then. But you see I can't go back unless I can take the kid home with me."
"Ay, that's clear enough," assented Phil.
"Well then, here's what I'm a-goin' to propose. Let's go back to them tramps, or gipsies, or whatever they are, and ask if they'll let us live with them for the present. They're kind people, and if we help them all we can, it'll go hard but we'll earn our board and lodgin'."
"Well?" said Phil, feeling that the most important of what Tad had set out to say, was unsaid as yet.
"Well," repeated Tad, "my idea was this, that we should stay on with them, movin' when and where they did, and livin' their life until—"
"Ah, I see what you mean!" cried Phil. "Until Sophie's daughter, Marie, came with the baby, and then—"
"Yes, that's it! Steal the baby again, and cut away," said Tad, "and trust to chance for gettin' across the Channel."
But Phil shook his head.
"No," said he firmly, "no more stealin' of babies, nor of nothin' else! It would be a wicked and ongrateful thing to do to them, as had been good to us, and beside I don't hold with bein' so secret and sly."
"But we want to get hold of the child," argued Tad, "and we can't get him onless we take him like that."
"I don't know; maybe we can," replied Phil; "anyway I'd try fair means first. And besides, Marie might remember your face, and know you again, and then she'd be extra careful not to give you a chance to steal the baby."
"I'd not thought of that," said Tad. "Well, Phil, say that we go back to old Sophie and Jacques and their people, and live with them, if they'll have us, and anyway, if Marie and the baby come or not, we'll have time to look about us and think what we'll do next."
"Yes, that's a good plan," replied Phil; "we can't do better as I knows of. But while we're talkin' of goin' back to the caravan, here we are walkin' on, and gettin' further away every minute."
"That's true; come, let's turn now and go back; but as we may chance to meet old Foxy, we'd better crawl along in the shadow of the hedge, one behind the other, and not talk at all."
This was slow progress, but the only safe course, as they proved very soon. For they heard steps approaching along the road, when they had gone a part of their return journey, and in the darkness they heard old Renard's heavy, shuffling step, and the low muttering in which—like Saul of Tarsus, before his conversion—he seemed to be breathing out threatening and slaughter, thus pleasantly beguiling the loneliness of the way. That he had other and yet more dangerous consolation too, was proved beyond all doubt; for almost opposite to the boys, as they crouched trembling under the hedge, Renard paused, and they heard a cork taken from a bottle, and then deep swallows of drink; probably the stimulant in which his soul chiefly delighted; the new and fiery cognac which is reckoned among the worst and most harmful of intoxicants.
Having drunk deeply, Foxy passed on.
But it was not until his footfall had ceased to sound upon the hard road, that the lads dared to creep from their hiding-place, and resume their journey back to the camp.
TURNING THE TABLES
IT is said, and with truth, that all, or nearly all, wandering races are rich in the grace of hospitality, and these French gipsies, or rather tramps of a mixed race, had kind hearts, as Tad and Phil proved.
Poor, outcast, homeless creatures as they were, strangers in a strange land, these good people had asked of them but few questions, but made the boys heartily welcome, giving them permission to continue with the troupe so long as it suited them to do so.
Old Jacques had said, furthermore, when he yielded to the earnest entreaty of the lads, "Yes, my children, and I accept your offer of service. We are not rich, and we cannot afford to keep anyone in idleness. You will therefore work as we do, and be one with us in all things, subject also to the laws that govern us. For we have our own rules which we strictly enforce, and punishment is inflicted upon all those who break them."
The boys had readily promised obedience. Any rule, any yoke of service, would be light, and even pleasant, after the miseries of their late servitude, and now they gladly resolved to be docile, industrious, and helpful. Very soon they found they were taken at their word, and that there was no want of employment for anyone willing and able. They learned the art of basket-making, Phil's slender hands being specially clever in this. They made flower-sticks, clothes-pegs, twig-brooms, and broom-handles. They caned chairs, mended kitchen furniture for the poor people, and did a little rough tinkering. Phil, too, soon proved himself a good hand at weaving big rush hats for farm labourers, and very proud he was when he could hand over into good mother Sophie's care a handful of coppers, the wages of his industry.
Tad, on the other hand, was just as useful in the heavier and rougher work, and in the daily routine duties of the camp. He felt it no indignity to be a hewer of wood and drawer of water to the kind people who had extended towards him and Phil so generous a helping hand in their dire distress and destitution.
Ready in all things else to do the gipsies' bidding, the boys had begged that they should never be sent on errands that necessitated their going any distance alone. They had told Jacques and Sophie enough of their story to bespeak the sympathy and protection of the good old couple, and to show them that a meeting with Renard, Paul, or Jean might prove dangerous to their freedom, and possibly even to their lives. So the lads were kept to duties within the precincts of the camp; and in the busy, out-of-door life which they led, they lost, after a while, all fear of the evil men, the dread of whose reappearance had hitherto haunted them like evil phantoms.
For some time they heard nothing more about Marie and her plans. But one day Sophie and Jacques were talking together, and Tad heard what was said. The gipsies had decided to go on the next day to St. Malo, and encamp in a piece of waste ground about half a mile out of the town.
"At the town post-office, a letter from our daughter will probably be awaiting us," Sophie had said, "and let us hope she will soon follow it, coming by one of the steamers that bring passengers to this port."
The next day the little procession of gipsy vans passed through the town, not stopping, however, anywhere until it reached the open space where the troupe could encamp without fear of disturbing anyone, or being themselves molested.
One morning Tad and Phil were busy helping Sophie and Pelagie with the noonday meal. It was not often these gipsies had meat or poultry of any kind, but to-day one of the party had bought from a farmer's man, for a mere trifle, an antiquated rooster of venerable aspect, and the whole company were in high glee at the thought of adding this dainty to the usual soup.
But first old chanticleer must be plucked and cleaned, and Tad was set to work at this, while Phil helped to wash turnips and carrots, and peel onions and potatoes for the pot-au-feu.
Jacques and one or two of the men had gone into the town to call at the post-office and make some necessary purchases, and the rest of the troupe were employed about the camp in various ways.
It was one of those mild mornings in March which come sometimes, closely following a storm of wind and rain, and which give, in their balmy freshness and sweetness, promise of the yet fairer time at hand.
Light-hearted as the birds, the boys were chattering over their work, breaking out, now and again, into some fragment of English song, when a voice behind them said, "Bon jour, mine cheeldren! So I you have found at de last, you were naughty boys. Oh unkind and tankless to run yourselves away from de good, kind master, from dis poor old Renard dat did lofe you so moche!"
The boys started and turned. Tad, in his horror, almost tumbled the ancient fowl—now partially denuded of his scant feathers—into the fire, and Phil overturned the big basin of water into which he was putting his peeled vegetables.
"Ah, mine leetle dears!" went on Renard with his evil, sneering smile. "You am agitate. It is widout doubt from de joy to see once more you dear old master. Ah, truly yes. Well now we am discover one anoder, you shall bote come back to me, and all weel be as before, but steel better. Oh yes, believe me, mine dears, so moche better."
The lads, paralysed with terror, still said nothing, and just at that moment, up came old Sophie and Pelagie to see if the provisions in hand were ready yet for the big pot which they had filled at the brook. As Sophie approached, Tad made a spring, and falling on his knees before her, caught her gown.
"Oh dear mother, good mother Sophie, here is this dreadful man!" he cried. "It is he—our master of whom we told you! Give us not up to him! For God's sake suffer him not to take us away with him!"
Phil said nothing, but he too had come near, and with pleading eyes fixed on the old woman's face, awaited her answer.
She put a motherly hand upon each of the boys, and turning to Renard said:
"Surely, monsieur, I have seen you before! Did you not come to us some nights ago, on the other side of St. Malo?"
"Madame, you are right," replied Renard, doffing his greasy cap and making a low bow which had about it an insulting air of mockery.
"And on that occasion," went on Sophie, "you made inquiry respecting two lads?"
"I did so, madame; once more you are entirely right."
"Are these the lads then, monsieur?"
"These are they, madame, sans doute. The eye of love—such love as I have for these dear petits garcons—" and Foxy showed his teeth—"is not to be deceived."
"What then do you want, monsieur, now you have found them?" asked Mother Sophie.
"Madame, you are a stranger to me!" cried Foxy. "You know not—how should you?—this heart of mine, or you would not make such an inquiry. Unworthy, ungrateful as these children are, I am ready (such is my magnanimous nature!) to forgive and receive them back into my affection and my service."
"Hein, monsieur! Eh bien!" cried the strident voice of Pelagie, who had hitherto stood silent. "But what say the boys to this? You say you are willing to have them back; now the question is, are they ready to return to you? For there should be two sides to a bargain, monsieur, as all the world knows."
"You have reason, Pelagie," said Sophie quietly. "What say you, my children?" and the old woman's voice softened, and her face grew tender and pitiful, as the lads clung to her in their fear and distress. "What say you, will you go with Monsieur Renard, your former master?"
"No, no, good mother, never! Never again!" cried both boys at once.
Old Sophie turned once more to Foxy.
"You see, monsieur, that these lads do not wish to avail themselves of the kindness you offer them, so there is nothing more to be said, and I will wish you bon jour, Monsieur Renard."
Renard's face at this lost its mocking grin, and became dark and louring.
"And know you not, you stupid gipsy woman," he shrieked, "that I—Jules Renard—have a right to these children? And I swear to you—ugly old hag that you are—if you give them not up to me this very minute, I will bring the police from, the town, and then, not only will the lads have to come with me, but you will be punished for detaining them."
"Ah, Monsieur Renard, if it comes to talk of police, perchance you are not the only one who may have somewhat to say," remarked a deep, stern voice behind Foxy. And good old Jacques, backed by two of the troupe—stalwart nephews of his—appeared on the scene. "Listen, my friend; we have information that you, and two worthy companions of yours, were more or less concerned in a burglary not very far from here, and their names and the home of one of them are known to us. We are quiet people, Monsieur Renard, and we seek no quarrel with any; but another word from you, another threat against us or these children, and at once we give in our information at headquarters at St. Malo. And as for your treatment of the boys—there is a law in France to protect them, and to punish those who sin against them. Look to yourself, you fox by name and fox by nature. Seek not to meddle with these lads, or you may find yourself where you would rather not be."
The stern, uncompromising manner and words of the old gipsy seemed to make an impression on Renard, who cowered and cringed as the man was speaking. But he turned it off lightly, only saying as he turned away:
"That is all nonsense; you could not hurt me if you would. But of course I will not press this matter of the boys, if they do not wish to return to me. Keep them, if you like to do so, and I wish you joy of your bargain. You will repent it some day."
Once more bowing low, cap in hand, and a sardonic leer on his thin lips, Renard bade the gipsies good day, while, watching him till out of sight on the St. Malo road, Tad and Phil at last dared to breathe freely once more.