Marpasse gave her the stone bottle of wine that Gaillard had sent them that morning. “Drink,” she said in a loud voice, “nothing like wine on a dusty road. Heigh-ho, I shall soon be sleepy,” and she rolled on her back so that she touched Denise, and stretched her arms and yawned. “Listen,” she said in a whisper, “there is that wood yonder, I have my plan,” and she went on speaking softly to Denise, and still stretching and yawning as though there was nothing hazardous to be considered. It was plodding along an endless road, with aching feet, and gloom in her heart, that had made Denise’s courage droop for the moment. Above all it was the hopelessness that had tired her. Marpasse’s words were as warm and as heartening as strong wine. The spark fell on the tinder and red life began to run again through Denise’s being. “I am strong enough, Marpasse.” Marpasse seized her hand, and pretended to bite it, like a dog at play. “Don’t look red and eager, my dear. Limp, as though you had worn your feet to the bone. Now, good St. George, bless all fools!” Marpasse jumped up, and crossed the road to where the two men-at-arms who had charge of them were making a meal. She spoke to them jauntily, her hands on her hips, her brown face insolent and laughing, her eyes unabashed. The men laughed in turn, and nodded. Marpasse recrossed the road, held out a hand to Denise, and pulled her roughly to her feet. Marpasse put an arm about Denise, and Denise, prompted by her comrade, limped as she walked, and leant her weight upon Marpasse. Fifty yards from the road was a patch of scrub that jutted out like a pointed beard from the broad chin of an oak wood. Marpasse and Denise went slowly towards the trees, thinking each moment that they would hear some voice calling them back roughly to the road. Marpasse felt Denise straining forward instinctively upon her arm. She was breathing rapidly like one in a fever. They reached the scrub, and skirting it, came to the ditch that bounded the wood. Marpasse still kept her arm about Denise. “Gently, sister, gently; it would be a shame to spoil everything by bolting like a hare. Be sure, our friends behind are watching us.” Marpasse turned her head to look. “Curses!” and the strain of the moment showed in her impatience, “one of the fools is strolling after us. We cannot go far with only our shadows for company. Over! No muddy shoes this time.” They were across the ditch, and on the edge of the wood, Marpasse still holding Denise as they went in amid the trees. She kept looking back till the open land and the sky were shut out by the dense lattice work of the boughs. The men had not followed them across the ditch, and Marpasse blessed their luck when she saw that the underwood had been cut that winter so that it would be quicker running between the stubs. Only the dead leaves troubled Marpasse, rustling and crackling under their feet. “Now for it, run, run!”