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"Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go

faster?" asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.

"It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too

much; it would rouse suspicion."

"Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!"

"The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued."

Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous

buildings, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country,

avenues of leafless trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us,

the soft deep mud is on either side. Sometimes, we strike into

the skirting mud, to avoid the stones that clatter us and shake

us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and sloughs there. The agony of

our impatience is then so great, that in our wild alarm and hurry

we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing anything but

stopping.