To-morrow dawns so fair that two of the party agree to walk back for
exercise, and let their kidnap-sacks follow by the trap. I need
hardly say they are neither of them French; for, of all English
phrases, the phrase 'for exercise' is the least comprehensible across
the Straits of Dover. All goes well for a while with the
pedestrians. The wet woods are full of scents in the noontide. At a
certain cross, where there is a guardhouse, they make a halt, for the
forester's wife is the daughter of their good host at Barbizon. And
so there they are hospitably received by the comely woman, with one
child in her arms and another prattling and tottering at her gown,
and drink some syrup of quince in the back parlour, with a map of the
forest on the wall, and some prints of love-affairs and the great
Napoleon hunting. As they draw near the Quadrilateral, and hear once
more the report of the big guns, they take a by-road to avoid the
sentries, and go on a while somewhat vaguely, with the sound of the
cannon in their ears and the rain beginning to fall. The ways grow
wider and sandier; here and there there are real sand-hills, as
though by the sea-shore; the fir-wood is open and grows in clumps
upon the hillocks, and the race of sign-posts is no more.
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