“It will stand, as always, at the end of the row by the West Barricade, and I will see that it is ready. You can tell him the road and the way, as you know the country about, but it would be well for me to have a word with him. You say he knows the road? He’s not one of the city brats?” As the market gardener asked this last question, he took out his long pipe and lit it. Settling back on the stool that Dian had vacated, he drew a long puff from it, unconscious of the wry face that Raoul made as the tobacco smoke filled the room. “He knows all the country near you, for he comes from the road east of Calais, and has been back and forth in summer weather many times,” Dian answered. Then he opened the door and went out, saying over his shoulder as he did so: “The lad and I will be at the West Barricade to-morrow at sundown, or just before the gates close. You never go until then, I take it?” “No, we hold on for the trade until dusk. I’ll be there by the cart. Raoul here will be his own man in a few days, and will, I hope, have learned his lesson about going slow with pigs’ feet,” answered Raoul’s master. “Give my regards to the funny fat man in the brown cloak,” called Raoul, and Dian could hear him laughing, weak as he was, as he went down the seed shop stairs. Dian knew that all had gone well with Marie Josephine, for he had stayed about the house and halls, and had known when she had gone up the back stairs, though no one else had seen the little grey figure slip away. He had gone out and waited, fighting the fear that almost choked him as the minutes seemed to fly by, and the door in the garden wall did not open. Then he had seen them come out and go their different ways, as they had been told to do, and so, instead of going in again to the house, to give his life if need be for them, he had gone on to the seed shop and there, as always, he had found a way. He felt a sense of relief in the knowledge that Henri had gone with his regiment that morning, for though he was grateful that the man had waked up to his real self, putting his cowardice aside and doing a last act of helpfulness in aiding the comtesse to escape, still the knowledge of the hidden cellar was not for him. Dian, when he reached the Saint Frère house, walked up and down the upper cellar for some time, his hands clasped before him, his face lifted to the dark, dusty rafters. He felt that the old comte was very near to him, not a wraith of his person, but the loving earnestness of his spirit. He was doing the best he knew how, this shepherd, in his own simple way. To him it meant only trusting in the power of good to stand by them.