The man whom the others called Simon thrust again, but too low and without result.  He was for trying a third time, when one of his comrades who had gone to the other side of the lane announced that the men were on the top of the hay.

“Can you see them?”

“No, but there’s room and to spare.”

“Oh, a curse on your room!” Simon retorted.  “Well, you can look.”

“If that’s all, I’ll soon look!” was the answer.  And the rogue, forcing himself between the hay and the side of the gateway, found the wheel of the cart, and began to raise himself on it.

Tignonville, who lay on that hand, heard, though he could not see his movements.  He knew what they meant, he knew that in a twinkling he must be discovered; and with a last prayer he gathered himself for a spring.

It seemed an age before the intruder’s head appeared on a level with the hay; and then the alarm came from another quarter.  The hen which had made its nest at Tignonville’s feet, disturbed by the movement or by the newcomer’s hand, flew out with a rush and flutter as of a great firework.  Upsetting the startled Simon, who slipped swearing to the ground, it swooped scolding and clucking over the heads of the other men, and reaching the street in safety, scuttled off at speed, its outspread wings sweeping the earth in its rage.

They laughed uproariously as Simon emerged, rubbing his elbow.

“There’s for you!  There’s your preacher!” his opponent jeered.

“D—–­n her! she gives tongue as fast as any of them!” gibed a second.  “Will you try again, Simon?  You may find another love-letter there!”

“Have done!” a third cried impatiently.  “He’ll not be where the hen is!  Let’s back!  Let’s back!  I said before that it wasn’t this way he turned!  He’s made for the river.”

“The plague in his vitals!” Simon replied furiously.  “Wherever he is, I’ll find him!” And, reluctant to confess himself wrong, he lingered, casting vengeful glances at the hay.

But one of the other men cursed him for a fool; and presently, forced to accept his defeat or be left alone, he rejoined his fellows.  Slowly the footsteps and voices receded along the lane; slowly, until silence swallowed them, and on the quivering strained senses of the two who remained behind, descended the gentle influence of twilight and the sweet scent of the new-mown hay on which they lay.

La Tribe turned to his companion, his eyes shining.  “Our soul is escaped,” he murmured, “even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler.  The snare is broken and we are delivered!” His voice shook as he whispered the ancient words of triumph.

But when they came to look in the nest at Tignonville’s feet there was no egg!

CHAPTER IX.  UNSTABLE.