road leading to them. But the road led to a gate-way choked
by a fallen jamb and barred door, and the guide led them round the
ruins of the wall to the opening where the breach had been. The sand
was already blowing in, and no doubt veiled much; for the streets were
scarcely traceable through remnants of houses more or less dilapidated,
with shreds of broken or burnt household furniture within them.

'Ask him for _la rue des Trois Fees_,' hoarsely whispered Berenger.

The fisherman nodded, but soon seemed at fault; and an old man, followed
by a few children, soon appearing, laden with piece of fuel, he appealed
to him as Father Gillot, and asked whether he could find the street. The
old man seemed at home in the ruins, and led the way readily. 'Did he
know the Widow Laurent's house?'

'Mademoiselle [footnote: This was the title of _bourgeoise_ wives, for
many years, in France.] Laurent! Full well he knew her; a good pious
soul was she, always ready to die for the truth,' he added, as he read
sympathy in the faces round; 'and no doubt she had witnessed a good
confession.'

'Knew he aught of the lady she had lodged?'

'He knew nothing of ladies. Something he had heard of the good widow
having sheltered that shining light, Isaac Gardon, quenched, no doubt,
in the same destruction; but for his part, he had a daughter in one of
the isles out there, who always sent for him if she suspected danger
here on the mainland, and he had only returned to his poor farm a day
or two after Michael-mas.' So saying, he led them to the threshold of a
ruinous building, in the very centre, as it were, of the desolation, and
said, 'That, gentlemen, is where the poor honest widow kept her little
shop.'

Black, burnt, dreary, lay the hospitable abode. The building had fallen,
but the beams of the upper floor had fallen aslant, so as to shelter a
portion of the lower room, where the red-tile pavement, the hearth with
the gray ashes of the harmless home-fire, some unbroken crocks, a chain,
and a _sabot_, were still visible, making the contrast of dreariness
doubly mournful.

Berenger had stepped over the threshold, with his hat in his hand, as if
the ruin were a sacred place to him, and stood gazing in a transfixed,
deadened way. The captain asked where the remains were.

'Our people,' said the old man and the fisher, 'laid them by night in
the earth near the church.'

Just then Berenger's gaze fell on something half hidden under the fal