As we passed through a small agglomeration of houses that one might
hardly call a village, I recognized several familiar faces on the
doorsteps, and presently comprehended why Charly was so dark and silent
the night before. It was empty--evacuated--and the greater part of its
inhabitants were here on the roadside, preparing to continue their
route.

Where were we going? I think none of us had a very definite idea. We
were following in line on the only road that crossed this wonderfully
fertile country. The monotony of the landscape, the warmth of the sun,
added to the gentle swing of my cart calmed my nerves and I fell back
into a heavy sleep.

When I opened my eyes I could hear water running over a dam, and see
below me and but a very short distance away, a river flowing through a
valley. Someone said it was the Petit Morin; another announced that we
had come seventeen kilometers and a third proffered that it was 6:30 A.
M.--time for breakfast. We ought not to attack the opposite hill on
empty stomachs.

Accordingly we crossed the Petit Morin and broke ranks in front of two
little cottages that bordered the river at the entrance of an electric
power house. At the same time, a small covered gig halted beside our
big cart and from it descended the mother of the two little girls she
who had so much gold.

Did I mind if she followed in our wake?

Of course not.