nd explained to him and
to the two men what were the dreadful tidings that had wrought such
a change in Berenger's demeanour. The way over the shifting sands was
toilsome enough to all the rest of the party; but Berenger scarcely
seemed to feel the deep plunge at every step as they almost ploughed
their way along for the weary two miles, before a few green bushes and
half-choked trees showed that they were reaching the confines of the
sandy waste. Berenger had not uttered a word the whole time, and his
silence hushed the others. The ground began to rise, grass was seen
still struggling to grow, and presently a large straggling mass of
black and gray ruins revealed themselves, with the remains of a once
well-trodden road leading to them. But the road led to a gate-way choked
by a fallen jamb and barred door, and the guide led them round the
ruins of the wall to the opening where the breach had been. The sand
was already blowing in, and no doubt veiled much; for the streets were
scarcely traceable through remnants of houses more or less dilapidated,
with shreds of broken or burnt household furniture within them.

'Ask him for _la rue des Trois Fees_,' hoarsely whispered Berenger.

The fisherman nodded, but soon seemed at fault; and an old man, followed
by a few children, soon appearing, laden with piece of fuel, he appealed
to him as Father Gillot, and asked whether he could find the street. The
old man seemed at home in the ruins, and led the way readily. 'Did he
know the Widow Laurent's house?'

'Mademoiselle [footnote: This was the title of _bourgeoise_ wives, for
many years, in France.] Laurent! Full well he knew her; a good pious
soul was she, always ready to die for the truth,' he added, as he read
sympathy in the faces round; 'and no doubt she had witnessed a good
confession.'

'Knew he aught of the lady she had lodged?'

'He knew nothing of ladies. Something he had heard of the good widow
having sheltered that shining light, Isaac Gardon, quenched, no doubt,
in the same destruction; but for his part, he had