, peering down among the
pine boughs at the dark spot where the travellers, old and young, were
sleeping soundly.

CHAPTER THREE.

Phil was the first to wake in the soft grey morning, to lie listening to
a regular sharp tapping made by a busy woodpecker somewhere among the
ancient pines; and he wondered some time what it meant and where he was.
But a soft deep breath close to his ear made him start round so
suddenly that he awoke Dr Martin, who started up looking as surprised
as his bed-fellow.

"I couldn't recollect where I was," said Phil, "Oh, I am so hungry."

"And no wonder, my poor boy. There, come and bathe your face with me,
and at all costs we must get to some farmhouse and buy or beg our
breakfast."

The bathing was soon at an end, and though disposed to limp a little,
Phil stepped out bravely in the direction the Doctor chose, and with
such good effect that before long the chimneys of a farmhouse were seen,
for which they made at once.

"Cows," said Phil, eagerly, "and a man milking."

It was as the little fellow said, for half a dozen cows were dreamily
munching grass, while a sour-looking man was seated upon a stool. Dr
Martin walked up at once, the man being so intent upon the milking that
he did not raise his head till the Doctor spoke, when he started so
violently that he nearly overset the pail.

"Who are you? What is it?" he cried.

"We are travellers, and hungry," replied the Doctor, in French. "Will
you sell us some--"

He got no farther.

"Here, I know you, sir. You are the English spy, old Martin's friend,
who came to live with him, and that is the boy. I know you and what you
have done. You have brought the English here to take the place."

"Indeed you wrong me, sir," cried the Doctor, humbly. "It is a
mistake."

"A mistake," cried the man, furiously. "You'll soon find out that it
is, for you and the English cub. Our soldiers were here looking for you
last night. I know where they are now."

"I cannot help it," said the Doctor, sadly. "The poor boy is starving;
he has eaten nothing since breakfast yesterday. I will pay you well,
sir, for all you sell me."

"I sell to a spy? Never a bit nor a drop."

He shouted his words in the Canadian-French _patois_, opening a big
knife in a threatening manner.

"Indeed you are mistaken, sir. Pray sell us bread and milk, for the
poor boy's sake. He is starving."

"Let him starve in prison then. Off with you--off!"