Chartres was not far away, not much more than twenty-five miles.
With luck they might get there tomorrow.
Probably, Rougeron would be away from home, but - it was worth trying.
Presently he slept.
He woke several times in the night, gasping and breathless, with a very tired heart.
Each time he sat upright for half an hour and drank a little brandy, presently slipping down again to an uneasy doze.
The children also slept uneasily, but did not wake.
At five o'clock the old man woke for good, and sitting up against a heap of hay, resigned himself to wait till it was time to wake the children.
He would go to Chartres, and look up Rougeron.
The bad night that he had suffered was a warning; it might well be that his strength was giving out.
If that should happen, he must get the children safe with someone else.
With Rougeron, if he were there, the children would be safe; Howard could leave money for their keep, English money it was true, but probably negotiable.
Rougeron might give him a bed, and let him rest a little till this deathly feeling of fatigue went away.
Pierre woke at about half-past six, and lay awake with him.
'You must stay quiet,' the old man said.
'It's not time to get up yet.
Go to sleep again.'
At seven o'clock Sheila woke up, wriggled about, and climbed out of her bed.
Her movements woke the other children.
Howard got up stiffly and got them all up.
He herded them before him down the ladder to the farmyard, and one by one made them sluice their faces beneath the pump.
There was a step behind him, and he turned to meet a formidable woman, who was the farmer's wife.
She demanded crossly what he was doing there.
He said mildly: 'I have slept in your hay, madame, with these children.
A thousand pardons, but there was no other place where we could go.'
She rated him soundly for a few minutes.
Then she said:
'Who are you?
You are not a Frenchman.
No doubt, you are English, and these children also?'
He said: 'These children are of all nationalities, madame.
Two are French and two are Swiss, from Geneva.
One is Dutch.'
He smiled:
'I assure you, we are a little mixed.'
She eyed him keenly.
'But you,' she said, 'you are English.'
He said: 'If I were English, madame, what of that?'
'They are saving in Angerville that the English have betrayed us, that they have run away, from Dunkirk.'
He felt himself to be in peril.
This woman was quite capable of giving them all up to the Germans.
He faced her boldly and looked her in the eyes.
'Do you believe that England has abandoned France?' he asked.
'Or do you think that is a German lie?'
She hesitated.
'These filthy politics,' she said at last.
'I only know that this farm is ruined.
I do not know how we shall live.'
He said simply: 'By Grace of God, madame.'
She was silent for a minute.