"Oh, yes," said Martin, "because I pommelled you a little. However, don't be angry about it. It was the fever of hunger that lent strength to my arm. But now you are my Providence; for you, being a fellow-countryman, surely will not let me fall into the hands of those fellows again, will you?" "No, to be sure I will not, if I can help you in any way," replied Arnauld du Thill, who was reflecting in his shrewd way upon what Martin had said. He began to see light on the subject of regaining his advantage, which had been put in some peril by the strong grasp of his double. "You can do a great deal for me," Martin-Guerre went on ingenuously. "Are you not somewhat acquainted with this neighborhood?" "I belong in Auvray, a quarter of a league from here," said Arnauld. "Are you on your way there?" "No, I am just coming from there," replied the crafty knave, after a moment's hesitation. "Does Auvray lie in that direction, then?" asked Martin, pointing toward Noyon. "Exactly so," replied Arnauld; "it is the first village out of Noyon on the road to Paris." "On the road to Paris!" cried Martin; "well, just see, then, how a man may get turned around in the woods! I fancied that my back was turned to Noyon, whereas I was really coming back to it; that I was going toward Paris, whereas I was really getting farther away. The cursed country is entirely strange to me, as I was just telling you. So it seems that I must travel in the direction from which you came to avoid walking into the wolfs jaws." "You are quite right, Master! I am going to Noyon; but walk with me a few steps. We shall find at the ferry over the Oise, close by, another road which will take you to Auvray more directly." "I am very much obliged, friend Bertrand," said Martin; "to be sure, I want to be as sparing of my steps as possible, for I am very tired and very weak, having, as I was telling you, about as little sustenance in me as I well could have. You don't happen to have anything to eat about you, friend Bertrand, do you? If you have, you will have saved me twice over,--once from the English, and again from starvation, which is quite as terrible as they." "Alas!" was Arnauld's reply, "I haven't a crumb in my haversack! But if you care for a draught of good wine, why, my calash is quite full." In fact, Babette had taken care to fill her unfaithful swain's calash with _vin de Chypre_,--a very potent wine of the period; and Arnauld up to that time had indulged very sparingly, so as to retain his rather easily upset reasoning powers amid the perils of the road. "I think I should be more than glad of a drink!" cried Martin-Guerre, enthusiastically. "A draught of wine is sure to enliven me a bit." "Well, then, take it and drink away, my good fellow!" said Arnauld, offering him his calash.