eds of miles between them and Bourdeaux;
the country all getting hostile, suspicious of the truth; simmering and
buzzing on all sides, more and more. Louvet has preserved the Itinerary
of it; a piece worth all the rest he ever wrote.

O virtuous Petion, with thy early-white head, O brave young Barbaroux,
has it come to this? Weary ways, worn shoes, light purse;--encompassed
with perils as with a sea! Revolutionary Committees are in every
Township; of Jacobin temper; our friends all cowed, our cause the losing
one. In the Borough of Moncontour, by ill chance, it is market-day:
to the gaping public such transit of a solitary Marching Detachment
is suspicious; we have need of energy, of promptitude and luck, to be
allowed to march through. Hasten, ye weary pilgrims! The country is
getting up; noise of you is bruited day after day, a solitary Twelve
retreating in this mysterious manner: with every new day, a wider wave
of inquisitive pursuing tumult is stirred up till the whole West will
be in motion. 'Cussy is tormented with gout, Buzot is too fat for
marching.' Riouffe, blistered, bleeding, marching only on tiptoe;
Barbaroux limps with sprained ancle, yet ever cheery, full of hope and
valour. Light Louvet glances hare-eyed, not hare-hearted: only virtuous
Petion's serenity 'was but once seen ruffled.' (Meillan, pp. 119-137.)
They lie in straw-lofts, in woody brakes; rudest paillasse on the floor
of a secret friend is luxury. They are seized in the dead of night by
Jacobin mayors and tap of drum; get off by firm countenance, rattle of
muskets, and ready wit.

Of Bourdeaux, through fiery La Vendee and the long geographical spaces
that remain, it were madness to think: well, if you can get to Quimper
on the sea-coast, and take shipping there. Faster, ever faster!
Before the end of the march, so hot has the country grown, it is found
advisable to march all night. They do it; under the still night-canopy
they plod along;--and yet behold, Rumour has outplodded them. In
the paltry Village of Carhaix (be its thatched huts, and bottomless
peat-bogs, long notable to the Traveller), one is astonished to find
light still glimmering: citizens are awake, with rush-lights burning, in
that nook of the terrestrial Planet; as we traverse swiftly the one
poor street, a voice is heard saying, "There they are, Les voila qui
passent!" (Louvet, pp. 138-164.) Swifter, ye doomed lame Twelve: speed
ere they can arm; gain the Woods of Quimper befo