But--"pas de rue sans but!" as we say in Sercq--there is no road but has an
ending. And, just as the dawn was softening the east, and when we were nigh
our last effort, we stumbled by sheerest accident on shelter, warmth, and
food,--and so upon life, for I do not think either of us could have carried
on much longer, and to have sunk down there in the marsh, with no hope of
food, must soon have brought us to an end.

It was Le Marchant who smelt it first.

"Carré," he said suddenly, "there is smoke," and he stood and sniffed like
a starving dog. Then I smelt it also, a sweet pleasant smell of burning,
and we sniffed together.

Since it came to us on the wind we followed up the wind in search of it,
and nosed about hither and thither, losing it, finding it, but getting
hotter and hotter on the scent till we came at last to a little mound, and
out of the mound the smoke came.

A voice also as we drew close, muffled and monotonous, but human beyond
doubt. We crept round the mound till we came on a doorway all covered with
furze and grasses till it looked no more than a part of the mound. We
pulled open the door, and the voice inside said, "Blight him! Blight him!
Blight him!" and we crept in on our hands and knees.

There was a small fire of brown sods burning on the ground, and the place
was full of a sweet pungent smoke. A little old man sat crouched with his
chin on his knees staring into the fire, and said, "Blight him! Blight him!
Blight him!" without ceasing. There was no more than room for the three of