Girey-Dupré, and a young man named Riouffe, who joined them from sheer sympathy, were among the eleven now starting on this memorable retreat. Across desert moors, along lonely bye-ways, sinking knee-deep in bogs, struggling through brakes and briars, the outlawed republicans for security's sake tramped through the night, sometimes beneath the quiet stars, or under wild skies, where the moon, flying before the hurrying rack, seemed like them to fly from its hunters.
Strange Ulysses wanderings these for men bred up to peaceful professions—authors, barristers, students of arts and science. Afraid to ask shelter at country inn or cottage, they once stretched their tired limbs in a hay-loft, to be summoned, in the name of the law, by a patriotic villager at the dead of night, while flickering torch-light, cast its reflection, now on the National Guards without, now on these desperate men within, determined dearly to sell their lives. A curious colloquy, recorded by Louvet, then occurred between the suspected and suspecting parties. "What are you doing here?" asked the Mayor, tentatively, to whom Barbaroux replied, "We were sleeping." "But why in a hay-loft?" "We should have preferred your bed," quoth Louvet briskly. "And who may you be, my lively gentleman?" persisted the Mayor, whom Riouffe answered laughingly, "Why, a tired volunteer, who did not expect to be called so early." More parley ensued, and while they looked to their fire-locks, a more enterprising inquirer wished to know why they carried such loads of arms. "Because we know that this district is infested by brigands," replied Buzot, bent on annoying the departmental force, "and we wished they should at least learn to respect what they dislike." The upshot
