One of these houses bore for sign a cluster of holly, which indicated one of those wayside halting places where the pedestrians quench their thirst, and rest for an instant to recover strength before continuing the long fatiguing voyage of life.

Morgan stopped at the door, drew a pistol from its holster and rapped with the butt end as he had done at the Chartreuse.

Only as, in all probability, the good folks at the humble tavern were far from being conspirators, the traveller was kept waiting longer than he had been at the monastery.
At last he heard the echo of the stable boy's clumsy sabots.

The gate creaked, but the worthy man who opened it no sooner perceived the horseman with his drawn pistol than he instinctively tried to, close it again.
"It is I, Patout," said the young man; "don't be afraid." "Ah! sure enough," said the peasant, "it is really you, Monsieur Charles.

I'm not afraid now; but you know, as the cure used to tell us, in the days when there was a good God, 'Caution is the mother of safety.'" "Yes, Patout, yes," said the young man, slipping a piece of silver into the stable boy's hand, "but be easy; the good God will return, and M.le Cure also." "Oh, as for that," said the good man, "it is easy to see that there is no one left on high by the way things go.