We turned in the opposite direction; still going along the high road.
In about an hour, we struck up to the mountain-side, scrambling far
up before we even dared to rest; far up and away again before day
had fully dawned. Then we looked about for some place of rest and
concealment: and now we dared to speak in whispers. Amante told me that
she had locked the door of communication between his bedroom and mine,
and, as in a dream, I was aware that she had also locked and brought
away the key of the door between the latter and the salon.
“He will have been too busy this night to think much about you—he will
suppose you are asleep—I shall be the first to be missed; but they will
only just now be discovering our loss.”
I remember those last words of hers made me pray to go on; I felt as if
we were losing precious time in thinking either of rest or concealment;
but she hardly replied to me, so busy was she in seeking out some
hiding-place. At length, giving it up in despair, we proceeded onwards
a little way; the mountain-side sloped downwards rapidly, and in the
full morning light we saw ourselves in a narrow valley, made by a
stream which forced its way along it. About a mile lower down there
rose the pale blue smoke of a village, a mill-wheel was lashing up the
water close at hand, though out of sight. Keeping under the cover of
every sheltering tree or bush, we worked our way down past the mill,
down to a one-arched bridge, which doubtless formed part of the road
between the village and the mill.
“This will do,” said she; and we crept under the space, and climbing a
little way up the rough stone-work, we seated ourselves on a projecting
ledge, and crouched in the deep damp shadow. Amante sat a little above
me, and made me lay my head on her lap. Then she fed me, and took some
food herself; and opening out her great dark cloak, she covered up
every light-coloured speck about us; and thus we sat, shivering and
shuddering, yet feeling a kind of rest through it all, simply from the
fact that motion was no longer imperative, and that during the daylight
our only chance of safety was to be still. But the damp shadow in which
we were sitting was blighting, from the circumstance of the sunlight
never penetrating there; and I dreaded lest, before night and the time
for exertion again came on, I should feel illness creeping all over me.
To add to our discomfort, it had rained the whole day long, and the
stream, fed by a thousand little mountain brooklets, began to swell
into a torrent, rushing over the stones with a perpetual and dizzying
noise.
Every now and then I was wakened from the painful doze into which I
continually fell, by a sound of horses’ feet over our head: sometimes
lumbering heavily as if dragging a burden, sometimes rattling and
galloping, and with the sharper cry of men’s voices coming cutting
through the roar of the waters. At length, day fell. We had to drop
into the stream, which came above our knees as we waded to the bank.
There we stood, stiff and shivering. Even Amante’s courage seemed to
fail.
“We must pass this night in shelter, somehow,” said she. For indeed the
rain was coming down pitilessly. I said nothing. I thought that surely
the end must be death in some shape; and I only hoped that to death
might not be added the terror of the cruelty of men. In a minute or so
she had resolved on her course of action. We went up the stream to the
mill. The familiar sounds, the scent of the wheat, the flour whitening
the walls—all reminded me of home, and it seemed to me as if I must
struggle out of this nightmare and waken, and find myself once more a
happy girl by the Neckar-side. They were long in unbarring the door
at which Amante had knocked: at length, an old feeble voice inquired
who was there, and what was sought? Amante answered shelter from
the storm for two women; but the old woman replied, with suspicious
hesitation, that she was sure it was a man who was asking for shelter,
and that she could not let us in. But at length she satisfied herself,
and unbarred the heavy door, and admitted us. She was not an unkindly
woman; but her thoughts all travelled in one circle, and that was, that
her master, the miller, had told her on no account to let any man into
the place during his absence, and that she did not know if he would
not think two women as bad; and yet that as we were not men, no one
could say she had disobeyed him, for it was a shame to let a dog be
out such a night as this. Amante, with ready wit, told her to let no
one know that we had taken shelter there that night, and that then her
master could not blame her; and while she was thus enjoining secrecy
as the wisest course, with a view to far other people than the miller,
she was hastily helping me to take off my wet clothes, and spreading
them, as well as the brown mantle that had covered us both, before the
great stove which warmed the room with the effectual heat that the old
woman’s failing vitality required. All this time the poor creature
was discussing with herself as to whether she had disobeyed orders,
in a kind of garrulous way that made me fear much for her capability
of retaining anything secret if she was questioned. By-and-by, she
wandered away to an unnecessary revelation of her master’s whereabouts:
gone to help in the search for his landlord, the Sieur de Poissy, who
lived at the château just above, and who had not returned from his
chase the day before; so the intendant imagined he might have met with
some accident, and had summoned the neighbours to beat the forest and
the hill-side. She told us much besides, giving us to understand that
she would fain meet with a place as housekeeper where there were more
servants and less to do, as her life here was very lonely and dull,
especially since her master’s son had gone away—gone to the wars.
She then took her supper, which was evidently apportioned out to her
with a sparing hand, as, even if the idea had come into her head, she
had not enough to offer us any. Fortunately, warmth was all that we
required, and that, thanks to Amante’s cares, was returning to our
chilled bodies. After supper, the old woman grew drowsy; but she seemed
uncomfortable at the idea of going to sleep and leaving us still in the
house. Indeed, she gave us pretty broad hints as to the propriety of
our going once more out into the bleak and stormy night; but we begged
to be allowed to stay under shelter of some kind; and, at last, a
bright idea came over her, and she bade us mount by a ladder to a kind
of loft, which went half over the lofty mill-kitchen in which we were
sitting. We obeyed her—what else could we do?—and found ourselves in a
spacious floor, without any safeguard or wall, boarding, or railing,
to keep us from falling over into the kitchen in case we went too near
the edge. It was, in fact, the store-room or garret for the household.
There was bedding piled up, boxes and chests, mill sacks, the winter
store of apples and nuts, bundles of old clothes, broken furniture,
and many other things. No sooner were we up there, than the old woman
dragged the ladder, by which we had ascended, away with a chuckle, as
if she was now secure that we could do no mischief, and sat herself
down again once more, to doze and await her master’s return. We pulled
out some bedding, and gladly laid ourselves down in our dried clothes
and in some warmth, hoping to have the sleep we so much needed to
refresh us and prepare us for the next day. But I could not sleep, and
I was aware, from her breathing, that Amante was equally wakeful. We
could both see through the crevices between the boards that formed the
flooring into the kitchen below, very partially lighted by the common
lamp that hung against the wall near the stove on the opposite side to
that on which we were.