"Who goes there!" came a challenging voice. "Yslemont!" "Our men," said Guild, rising. Michaud came up in the darkness. "The shepherd, Jean Pascal, and Schultz, and the men of Yslemont are out there yet. Nothing I say affects them. They say that they need another Uhlan to bleed. Imbeciles!" "Won't they obey you?" "No, by God! The two sheep dogs of Jean are there, grave and wise as two big-eared devils squatting. And the half-crazed lad is teaching them to track Uhlans--making them sniff the bloody schapskas like a hunter who trains pups with a dead hare!" He looked around at the dozen shadowy figures gathering in the carrefour; the star-light sparkled on guns and belts and slings, and here and there on the vizor of a casquette-de-chasse. "The Grey Wolves," said Michaud, "can never find us in The Pulpit. If Monsieur is ready?" "Quite ready," said Guild. And the shadowy file, led by Michaud, moved straight into the woods. CHAPTER XXII DRIVEN GAME The stars had faded; a watery grey light glimmered through the forest. Deer crossed the grassy carrefour by the shrine, picking a dainty way toward forest depths; rabbits hopped homeward through dew-drenched ferns and bracken; a cock-pheasant saluted the dawn; the last wild boar still lingered amid the beech mast, rooting, coughing, following the furrows that his bristly snout was making while his furry bat-like ears, cocked forward, remained on duty, and his tail wriggled pleasurably. The silent watchers aloft behind the rocky escarpement of The Pulpit, looking down through leafy branches to the carrefour, saw the last little roedeer trot past on his fastidious way; saw the last rabbit vanish in the warren; saw the lone boar lift his huge and shaggy head to listen with piggish suspicion, then turn and go, silent as some monstrous spectre. From under hazel bushes pheasants stepped out to ruffle and preen and peck pensively among the fallen leaves, awaiting the promise of the sun, their white collars gleamed below their gorgeous heads; the sombre splendour of their plumage made brilliant spots along the ride. Here and there a hen-pheasant crept modestly about the business of breakfast. A blue and rosy jay alighted near, sign that the forest peace promised to endure. After a long while far in the west the grey was touched with rose. Darrel, lying beside Guild, chin on his folded arms, stirred slightly. "Sunrise," he said. Michaud, on the other side, reared himself on his hands and lay watching the west. "It is too early for the sun," he said. "That is a fire." Pinker, ruddier, redder grew the western sky. Silent, intent, forester, garde-de-chasse, charcoal burner, strained their keen eyes. Then a heavy sigh like a groan escaped Michaud. "The Lodge," he said, hoarsely, under his breath. "Oh God, my master's home."