Martin found a seat for her, where she might wait while he went on
alone to the house, and presently returned with both the good
people of the farm. They were more offhand and less deferential
than were her own people, but were full of kindliness. They were
middle-aged folk, most neatly clad, and with a grave, thoughtful
look about them, as if life were a much heavier charge to them than
to their light-hearted neighbours.

'A fair day to you, Madame,' said the farmer, doffing his wide-
flapped hat. 'I am glad to serve a sufferer for the truth's sake.'

'My husband was,' faltered Eustacie.

'AH! _la pauvre_,' cried the good woman, pressing forward as she
saw how faint, heated, and exhausted was the wanderer. 'Come in,
_ma pauvrette_. Only a bride at the Bartholomew! Alas! There,
lean on me, my dear.'

To be _tutoyee_ by the Fermiere Rotrou was a shock; yet the kind
manner was comfortable, and Eustacie suffered herself to be led
into the farm-house, where, as the dame observed, she need not fear
chance-comers, for they lived much to themselves, and no one would
be about till their boy Robinet came in with the cows. She might
rest and eat there in security, and after that they would find a
hiding-place for her--safe as the horns of the altar--for a night
or two; only for two nights at most.

'Nor do I ask more,' said Eustacie. 'Then Martin will come for
me.'