Soon the road that I was following split, after the fashion of the country, into three or four in a piece of rocky meadow. Since Modestine had shown such a fancy for beaten roads, I tried her instinct in this predicament. But the instinct of an ass is what might be expected from the name; in half a minute she was clambering round and round among some boulders, as lost a donkey as you would wish to see. I should have camped long before had I been properly provided; but as this was to be so short a stage, I had brought no wine, no bread for myself, and little over a pound for my lady friend. Add to this, that I and Modestine were both handsomely wetted by the showers. But now, if I could have found some water, I should have camped at once in spite of all. Water, however, being entirely absent, except in the form of rain, I determined to return to Fouzilhic, and ask a guide a little farther on my way--"a little farther lend thy guiding hand." The thing was easy to decide, hard to accomplish. In this sensible roaring blackness I was sure of nothing but the direction of the wind. To this I set my face; the road had disappeared, and I went across country, now in marshy opens, now baffled by walls unscalable to Modestine, until I came once more in sight of some red windows. This time they were differently disposed. It was not Fouzilhic, but Fouzilhac, a hamlet little distant from the other in space, but worlds away in the spirit of its inhabitants. I tied Modestine to a gate, and groped forward, stumbling among rocks, plunging mid-leg in bog, until I gained the entrance of the village. In the first lighted house there was a woman who would not open to me. She could do nothing, she cried to me through the door, being alone and lame; but if I would apply at the next house there was a man who could help me if he had a mind. They came to the next door in force, a man, two women, and a girl, and brought a pair of lanterns to examine the wayfarer. The man was not ill-looking, but had a shifty smile. He leaned against the doorpost, and heard me state my case. All I asked was a guide as far as Cheylard. "_C'est que, voyez-vous, il fait noir_," said he. I told him that was just my reason for requiring help. "I understand that," said he, looking uncomfortable; "_mais--c'est--de la peine_." I was willing to pay, I said. He shook his head. I rose as high as ten francs; but he continued to shake his head. "Name your own price then," said I. "_Ce n'est pas ca_," he said at length, and with evident difficulty; "but I am not going to cross the door--_mais je ne sortirai pas de la porte_." I grew a little warm, and asked him what he proposed that I should do. "Where are you going beyond Cheylard?" he asked by way of answer. "That is no affair of yours," I returned, for I was not going to indulge his bestial curiosity; "it changes nothing in my present predicament." "_C'est vrai, ca_," he acknowledged, with a laugh; "_oui, c'est vrai. Et d'ou venez-vous?_"