"Well said, Martin. I will take this other road; it is shorter, but more dangerous, for it is the main highway from Paris, which is watched more carefully than all the others. I shall run across more than one hostile party, I fear, and I shall have to drown myself in the ditches, or flay myself in the thickets, more than once; and when all is said and done, it is very possible that I may not accomplish my purpose. But no matter, Martin! Wait for me just half an hour; if I do not join you in that time, let Monsieur de Vaulpergues set out without delay. It will then be about midnight, and the danger will not be so great as in the evening. Nevertheless, Martin, advise him from me to adopt every possible precaution. You know what is to be done,--to divide his company into three detachments, and approach the town as quietly as possible from three opposite directions. It is too much to hope that all three detachments should succeed in getting into the place; but the failure of one may very well be the salvation of the others. But it's all the same! It is quite possible that we shall meet no more, my good Martin; but we must think only of the welfare of the country. Your hand! And may God keep you!" "Oh, I pray only for you, Monseigneur!" rejoined Martin. "If He will only preserve you, He may do what He pleases with me; for I am good for nothing except to worship you and serve you. So I hope to have some fine sport with these infernal Spaniards to-night." "I like to see you in this frame of mind, Martin. Well, adieu! Good luck to you, and keep cool, above all things!" "Good luck, Monseigneur, and don't be too rash!" The master and squire then separated. Everything went well at first with Martin; and although it was scarcely possible for him to lose his way, he nevertheless showed considerable skill in avoiding some suspicious-looking armed men from whom the darkness hid him. But as he drew near the Walloon encampment, the sentinels became much more numerous. At the fork of two roads, Martin-Guerre suddenly found himself between two parties of soldiers, one on foot, and the other mounted; and a sharp _Qui vive_? told the unlucky squire that he was discovered. "Well," said he, "now the time has come to show the impudence which my master recommended to me so forcibly." And struck with an almost providentially bright idea, he began to sing at the top of his voice, and very opportunely, the following ballad of the siege of Metz:-- "Le vendredi de la Toussaint, Est arrivé la Germanie À la belle croix de Messain Pour faire grande boucherie."[5] "Hola! qui va la?" cried a harsh voice with an accent and pronunciation almost unintelligible, but which we will not undertake to describe lest we become unintelligible ourselves. "A peasant from Angimont," replied Martin-Guerre, in a no less nondescript patois. And he kept on his way and his song with increasing vigor and spirit,--