ng of the wheels of that other coach on ahead--and it was all
so dismal and so horrible, the rain, the soughing of the wind in the
stunted trees, this landscape of mud and desolation, this eternally grey
sky.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE HALT AT CRECY

"Now, then, citizen, don't go to sleep; this is Crecy, our last halt!"

Armand woke up from his last dream. They had been moving steadily on
since they left Abbeville soon after dawn; the rumble of the wheels, the
swaying and rocking of the carriage, the interminable patter of the rain
had lulled him into a kind of wakeful sleep.

Chauvelin had already alighted from the coach. He was helping Marguerite
to descend. Armand shook the stiffness from his limbs and followed in
the wake of his sister. Always those miserable soldiers round them, with
their dank coats of rough blue cloth, and the red caps on their heads!
Armand pulled Marguerite's hand through his arm, and dragged her with
him into the house.

The small city lay damp and grey before them; the rough pavement of the
narrow street glistened with the wet, reflecting the dull, leaden sky
overhead; the rain beat into the puddles; the slate-roofs shone in the
cold wintry light.

This was Crecy! The last halt of the journey, so Chauvelin had said. The
party had drawn rein in front of a small one-storied building that had a
wooden verandah running the whole length of its front.

The usual low narrow room greeted Armand and Marguerite as they entered;
the usual mildewed walls, with the colour wash flowing away in streaks
from the unsympathetic beam above; the same device, "Liberte, Egalite,
Fraternite!" scribbled in charcoal above the black iron stove; the usual
musty, close atmosphere, the usual smell of onion and stale cheese,
the usual hard straight benches and central table with its soiled and
tattered cloth.

Marguerite seemed dazed and giddy; she had been five hours in
that stuffy coach with nothing to distract her thoughts except the
rain-sodden landscape, on which she had ceaselessly gazed since the
early dawn.

Armand led her to the bench, and she sank down on it, numb and inert,
resting her elbows on the table and her head in her hands.

"If it were only all over!" she sighed involuntarily. "Armand, at times
now I feel as if I were not really sane--as if my reason had already
given way! Tell me, do I seem mad to you at times?"

He sat down beside her and tried to chafe her little cold hands.

There was a