he suffered. For if anything it was hotter on the high causse than it
had been in the valley. An intermittent breeze imitated to vicious
perfection draughts from a furnace. And if this were a short cut to
Nant, Duchemin's judgment was gravely at fault.

Otherwise the journey was not unlike an exaggerated version of his walk
from Meyrueis to Montpellier-le-Vieux, except that the road was clearly
marked and he found less climbing to do. He saw neither hamlets nor
farmsteads, and found no water. By the middle of the afternoon his
thirst had become sheer torture.

In dusk of evening he stumbled down into the valley again and struck
the river road about midway between the Château de Montalais and Nant.
At this junction several dwellings clustered, in that fading light dark
masses on either side of the road. Duchemin noticed a few shadowy
shapes loitering about, but was too far gone in fatigue and thirst to
pay them any heed. He had no thought but to stop at the first house and
beg a cup of water. As he lifted a hand to knuckle the door he was
attacked.

With no more warning than a cry, the signal for the onslaught, and the
sudden scuffling noise of several pair of feet, he wheeled, found
himself already closely pressed by a number of men, and struck out at
random. His stick landed on somebody's head with a resounding thump
followed by a yell of pain. Then three men were grappling with him, two
more seeking to aid them, and another lay in the roadway clutching a
fractured skull and spitting oaths and groans.

His stick was seized and wrenched away, he was over-whelmed by numbers.
The knot of struggling figures toppled and went to the dust, Duchemin