"QUOTH LITTLE GARAINE"


I have given the whole story here as though it had been thought
out and written that Sunday afternoon which brought me good news of
Juste Duvarney. But it was not so. I did not choose to break the
run of the tale to tell of other things and of the passing of time.
The making took me many, many weeks, and in all that time I had
seen no face but Gabord's, and heard no voice but his, when he
came twice a day to bring me bread and water. He would answer no
questions concerning Juste Duvarney, or Voban, or Monsieur Doltaire,
nor tell me anything of what was forward in the town. He had had
his orders precise enough, he said. At the end of my hints and
turnings and approaches, stretching himself up, and turning the
corn about with his foot (but not crushing it, for he saw that I
prized the poor little comrades), he would say:

"Snug, snug, quiet and warm! The cosiest nest in the world--aho!"

There was no coaxing him, and at last I desisted. I had no
light. With resolution I set my mind to see in spite of the dark,
and at the end of a month I was able to note the outlines of my
dungeon; nay, more, I was able to see my field of corn; and at last
what joy I had when, hearing a little rustle near me, I looked
closely and beheld a mouse running across the floor! I straightway
began to scatter crumbs of bread, that it might, perhaps, come near
me--as at last it did.

I have not spoken at all of my wounds, though they gave me many
painful hours, and I had no attendance but my own and Gabord's. The