began to wind up-hill, and a stunted,
leafless wood straggled along one side of the highway. Babette was just
considering whether going through it would shorten her journey, when a
woman, dressed in the ordinary peasant costume of the country, emerged
from it and came towards her with quick, firm steps. She was tall and
rather masculine looking. The black Flemish cloak she wore hung round
her in straight, thick folds. She carried a market basket on one arm; a
neat white cloth concealing the eggs and butter that probably lay
underneath.

"Good-day," she said, in thick, guttural tones, as she reached Babette.
"Are you on the way to Brussels?"

Babette made way for her to pass, somewhat shyly.

"Yes," she said, "and I am in haste; but the roads are heavy and I have
my baby to carry."

As she answered, her eyes happened to fall on the stranger's right hand,
which was ungloved and clasping the basket. And as she looked her heart
seemed suddenly to quiver and stand still, for across that strong right
hand there ran a deep red scar, precisely similar to the one she had
noticed on the previous night on the hand of the youngest brother at the
"Vache Blanche."

It did not take long for the whole horrible truth to flash across her.
Doubtless they had felt insecure after their terrible deed, and the
youngest Marac had been dispatched after her, disguised as a woman, with
instructions to way-lay her by some shorter cut, in order to find out if
she was really ignorant of the frightful way in which the pedlar had met
his untimely end.

As these thoughts chased each other through her mind, she felt as if her
great terror was slowly blanching her face, and her limbs began to
tremble till she could hardly drag herself over the ground. But her
baby's warm little heart, beating so closely against her own, once more
gave her strength. She dropped her eyes so that she might no longer see
that awful hand, and tottered on by the new-comer's side, striving to
imagine that it was indeed only a harmless peasant woman who was walking
by her and trying to remember that every step was bringing her nearer to
Brussels and protection. Her companion glanced at her curiously, and
Babette shivered, for she fancied she saw suspicion in the look.

"You seem tired." she, or rather he, said, always speaking in the same
low, thick tones. "Brussels is barely two miles off, and it is yet
early, but perhaps you have not rested well. Where did you sleep?"