A murmur in French from Roy to Jean Paulet gave the further explanation, which would not have been forthcoming from Denham; and he had to submit to some of the vehement demonstrations from which his Colonel had basely fled. Denham endured them, with a certain reticent indifference of manner, which did not mean true indifference. A slightly quizzical smile stirred his lips, but the dark eyes, bent upon poor old Mme. Paulet, were infinitely kind. Then he too made a move towards the coach; and Roy, lingering one moment more, held out a hand to Jean, who seemed half stunned with his unexpected escape. "Bon jour, monsieur," the boy said frankly. "I'm glad you are not going to fight against the English just yet." Jean muttered broken words--something of a faltering hope and prayer that a day might come when he should have it in his power, perhaps--who could tell?--to do some benefit for Monsieur le Colonel, or for Monsieur le Colonel's friend. It seemed very unlikely--most unlikely--that he and these passing English prisoners should ever meet again, still more that he should be able to do aught for them. Yet most improbable events do take place in this world of ours. Roy had not that day seen the last of Jean Paulet. As the coach started, in the midst of grateful acclamations, Marie Paulet held up mute hands, tears streaming down her faded cheeks. Such a look was hers, that even Colonel Baron was conscious of moisture in the region of his eyes, though by no means easily moved to outward emotion. Mrs. Baron was weeping outright, with the thought of what such a parting would be between Roy and herself. As for Denham--nobody managed to get a clear sight of his face for a quarter of a minute. Then once more they were rolling along the interminable roads, Roy declaiming with boyish vehemence against Napoleon, and wondering whether Jean Paulet would ever again be drawn, and would have after all to go. They found a good deal to say on the question, and for a while the interest of the subject kept them going. But Denham's mind, like a spring slowly released, went back before long to the one engrossing question, which for a space had been thrust into the background. Would Polly indeed wait for him--no matter how long his imprisonment might last? Or would she grow tired of waiting, forget his love and some day become the wife of another? He could not look that possibility in the face with any sort of inward composure. It held him in thrall, both day and night, through the remainder of this wearisome journey. Roy was perplexed, during the last two or three days of their progress towards Verdun, at Ivor's absorption of mind. For the first time in his experience, his remarks failed repeatedly to reach the other's understanding. So new a phase of matters was bewildering. Not, however, till they were within three hours of Verdun did he note his friend's face with sufficient care to exclaim-- "I say, Den, I do believe you're tired! Are you?"