the morning after this little conversation between joe and cecile broke so dismally, and was so bitterly cold, that the old woman with whom the children had spent the night begged of them in her patois not to leave her. joe, of course, alone could understand a word she said, and even joe could not make much out of what very little resembled the bearnais of his native pyrenees; but the norman peasant, being both kind and intelligent, managed to convey to him that the weather looked ugly; that every symptom of a violent snowstorm was brewing in the lowering and leaden sky; that people had been lost and never heard of again in normandy, in less severe snowstorms than the one that was likely to fall that night; that in almost a moment all landmarks would be utterly obliterated, and the four little travelers dismally perish.
joe, however, only remembering france by what it is in the sunny south, and having from his latter life in london very little idea of what a snowstorm really meant, paid but slight heed to these warnings; and having ascertained that cecile by no means wished to remain in the little wayside cottage, he declared himself ready to encounter the perils of the way.
the old peasant bade the children good-by with tears in her eyes. she even caught up maurice in her arms, and said it was a direct flying in the face of providence to let so sweet an angel go forth to meet "certain destruction." but as her vehement words were only understood by one, and by that one very imperfectly, they had unfortunately little result.
the cottage was small, close, and very uncomfortable, and the children were glad to get on their way.
soon after noon they reached the old town of caen. they had walked on for two or three miles by the side of the river orne, and found themselves in old caen before they knew it. following strictly cecile's line of action, the children had hitherto avoided all towns—thus, had they but known it, making very little real progress. but now, attracted by some washer-women who, bitter as the day was, were busy washing their clothes in the running waters of the orne, they got into the picturesque town, and under the shadow of the old cathedral.
here, indeed, early as it was in the day, the short time of light seemed almost to have disappeared. the sky—what could be seen of it between the tall houses of the narrow street—looked almost black, and little flakes of snow began to fall noiselessly.
here joe, thinking of the norman peasant, began to be a little alarmed. he proposed, as they had got into caen, that they should run no further risk, but spend the night there.
but this proposition was met by tears of reproach by cecile. "oh, dear jography! and stepmother did say, never, never to stay in the big towns—always to sleep in the little inns. caen is much, much too big a town. we must not break my word to stepmother—we must not stay here."
cecile's firmness, joined to her great childish ignorance, could be dangerous, but joe only made a feeble protest.
"do you see that old woman, and the little lass by her side making lace?" he said. "that house don't look big; we might get a night's lodging as cheap as in the villages."
but though the little norman girl of seven nodded a friendly greeting to pretty brown-eyed maurice as he passed, and though the making of lace on bobbins must be a delightful employment, cecile felt there could be no tidings of lovedy for her there; and after partaking of a little hot soup in the smallest cafe they could come across, the little pilgrims found themselves outside caen and in the desolate and wintry country, when it was still early in the day.
early it was, not being yet quite two o'clock; but it might have been three or four hours later to judge by the light. the snow, it is true, had for the present ceased to fall, but the blackness of the sky was so great that the ground appeared light by comparison. a wind, which sounded more like a wailing cry than any wind the children had ever heard, seemed to fill the atmosphere.
it was not a noisy wind, and it came in gusts, dying away, and then repeating itself. but for this wailing wind there was absolutely not a sound, for every bird, every living creature, except the three children and the dog, appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth. maurice, not caring about the weather, indifferent to these signal flags of danger, was cross, for he wanted to talk to the little lacemaker, and to learn how to manage her bobbins.
cecile was wondering how soon they should reach a very small village, and find a night's shelter in a tiny inn. joe, better appreciating the true danger, was full of anxious forebodings and also self-reproach, for allowing himself to be guided by a child so young and ignorant as cecile. still it never occurred to him to turn back.
after all, it was given to toby to suggest, though, alas! when too late, the only sensible line of action. for some time, indeed ever since they left caen, the dog had walked on a little ahead of his party, with his tail drooping, his whole attitude one of utter despondency.
once or twice he had looked back reproachfully at cecile; once or twice he had relieved his feelings with a short bark of utter discomfort. the state of the atmosphere was hateful to toby. the leaden sky, charged with he knew not what, almost drove him mad. at last he could bear it no longer. there was death for him and his, in that terrible, sighing wind. he stood still, got on his hind legs, and, looking up at the lowering sky, gave vent to several long and unearthly howls, then darting at cecile, he caught her dress between his teeth, and turned her sharp round in the direction of caen.
if ever a dog said plainly, "go back at once, and save our lives," toby did then.
"toby is right," said joe in a tone of relief; "something awful is going to fall from that sky, cecile; we must go back to caen at once."
"yes, we must go back," said cecile, for even to her rather slow mind came the knowledge that a moment had arrived when a promise must yield to a circumstance.
they had left caen about a mile behind them. turning back, it seemed close and welcome, almost at their feet. maurice, still thinking of his little lacemaker, laughed with glee when joe caught him in his arms.
"take hold of my coat-tails, cecile," he said; "we must run, we may get back in time."
alas! alas! toby's warning had come too late. suddenly the wind ceased—there was a hush—an instant's stillness, so intense that the children, as they alone moved forward, felt their feet weighted with lead. then from the black sky came a light that was almost dazzling. it was not lightning, it was the letting out from its vast bosom of a mighty torrent of snow. thickly, thicker, thicker—faster, faster—in great soft flakes it fell; and, behold! in an instant, all caen was blotted out. trees vanished, landmarks disappeared, and the children could see nothing before them or behind them but this white wall, which seemed to press them in and hem them round.
