Grigge shuffled along in the dust that reminded him of the highway in Pigeon Valley. He thought of the croak of the frogs at night in the brook that ran along the back of the meadow behind the huts. He thought of the black bread that he had always eaten, and of the low-ceilinged, one-roomed hut that was his home. He had never meant anything to these people who awaited him in the lonely barn. Not one of them at Les Vignes, except the Little Mademoiselle, had ever given him more than a passing nod. All that he had done for them was because of Dian, but he had expected to taunt them with it, to humiliate them as they had so often, perhaps unthinkingly, humiliated him. He had thought that it would be fun to tease them, to tell them that the plan had fallen through and that there would be no possibility of the others reaching them; but he had not done any of these things, and as he walked along the quiet road that lovely May night, he felt closer to the sheltering greenness and the peaceful, drifting wind than he had ever felt before. When he came within the region of the barn he dropped to his knees and crawled slowly through the dark underbrush. It would never do for a late passer-by on the road to Calais to see him going to the barn, which was so unusually isolated, half hidden by brush and trees. It was a remarkable hiding place. Cécile met him, having slid back the door when she heard his faint rap. The main part of the barn was lighted by three lanthorns which hung from the ceiling, but the light was dim, and there was a thick blanket hung across the one window, so that no glimmer could reach the fields beyond. “I delivered the letter. He’s to wait every night by the willow woods. He says this Humphrey Trail’s his best friend. He’s safe. He won’t desert you.” There was a kinder tone in Grigge’s voice, for something in the eager way they listened to him touched him. Madame le Pont said, “Thank God.” Cécile shut her eyes for a moment and then she said: “They will come. I know they are safe. We had word that they were going to try to get through. That blessed cross-eyed Champar sent the message to us.” Cécile turned and put her arms about Denise who had come close to her. “We’ll see them, chérie, soon,” she whispered. Denise could only sob on Cécile’s shoulder. She at last was learning what it was to be in a revolution.