somely wetted by the showers. But now, if I could have found
some water, I should have camped at once in spite of all. Water,
however, being entirely absent, except in the form of rain, I determined
to return to Fouzilhic, and ask a guide a little farther on my way--"a
little farther lend thy guiding hand."

The thing was easy to decide, hard to accomplish. In this sensible
roaring blackness I was sure of nothing but the direction of the wind.
To this I set my face; the road had disappeared, and I went across
country, now in marshy opens, now baffled by walls unscalable to
Modestine, until I came once more in sight of some red windows. This
time they were differently disposed. It was not Fouzilhic, but
Fouzilhac, a hamlet little distant from the other in space, but worlds
away in the spirit of its inhabitants. I tied Modestine to a gate, and
groped forward, stumbling among rocks, plunging mid-leg in bog, until I
gained the entrance of the village. In the first lighted house there was
a woman who would not open to me. She could do nothing, she cried to me
through the door, being alone and lame; but if I would apply at the next
house there was a man who could help me if he had a mind.

They came to the next door in force, a man, two women, and a girl, and
brought a pair of lanterns to examine the wayfarer. The man was not
ill-looking, but had a shifty smile. He leaned against the doorpost,
and heard me state my case. All I asked was a guide as far as Cheylard.

"_C'est que, voyez-vous, il fait noir_," said he.

I told him that was just my reason for requiring help.

"I understand that," said he, looking uncomfortable; "_mais--c'est--de
la peine_."

I was willing to pay, I said. He shook his head. I rose as high as ten
francs; but he continued to shake his head. "Name your own price then,"
said I.

"_Ce n'est pas ca_," he said at length, and with evident difficulty;
"but I am not going to cross the door--_mais je ne sortirai pas de la
porte_."

I grew a little warm, and asked him what he proposed that I should do.

"Where are you going beyond Cheylard?" he asked by way of answer.

"That is no affair of yours," I returned, for I was not going to indulge
his bestial curiosity; "it changes nothing in my present predicament."

"_C'est vrai, ca_," he acknowledged, with a laugh; "_oui, c'est vrai. Et
d'ou venez-vous?_"

A better man than I might have felt nettled.

"Oh," said I, "I am not going to answer any of yo