'It is the fashion，'growled the man.'I meet no dinner anywhere.'
He took out a blackened pipe，filled it，lighted it with flint and steel，pulled at it until it was in a bright glow：then，suddenly held it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and thumb，that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
'Touch then.'It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this time，after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
'Tonight？'said the mender of roads.
'Tonight，'said the man，putting the pipe in his mouth.
'Where？'
'Here.'
He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at one another，with the hail driving in between them likea pigmy charge of bayonets，until the sky began to clear over the village.
'Show me！'said the traveller then，moving to the brow of the hill.
'See！'returned the mender of roads，with extended finger.'You go down here，and straight through the street，and past the fountain—'
'To the Devil with all that！'interrupted the other，rolling his eye over the landscape.'I go through no streets and past no fountains. Well？'
'Well！About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the village.'
'Good. When do you cease to work？'
'At sunset.'
'Will you wake me before departing？I have walked two nights without resting. Let me finish my pipe，and I shall sleep like a child.Will you wake me？'
'Surely.'
The wayfarer smoked his pipe out，put it in his breast，slipped off his great wooden shoes，and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He was fast asleep directly.
As the road mender plied his dusty labour，and the hail-clouds，rolling away，revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to by silver gleams upon the landscape，the little man（who wore a red cap now，in place of his blue one）seemed fascinated by the figure on the heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it，that he used his tools mechanically，and，one would have said，to very poor account.The bronze face，the shaggy black hair and beard，the coarse woollen red cap，therough medley dress of homespun stuff and hairy skins of beasts，the powerful frame attenuated by spare living，and the sullen and desperate compression of the lips in sleep，inspired the mender of roads with awe.The traveller had travelled far，and his feet were footsore，and his ankles chafed and bleeding；his great shoes，stuffed with leaves and grass，had been heavy to drag over the many long leagues，and his clothes were chafed into holes，as he himself was into sores.Stooping down beside him，the road mender tried to get a peep at secret weapons in his breast or where not；but，in vain，for he slept with his arms crossed upon him，and set as resolutely as his lips.Fortified towns with their stockades，guardhouses，gates，trenches，and drawbridges，seemed to the mender of roads，to be so much air as against this figure.And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and looked around，he saw in his small fancy similar figures，stopped by no obstacle，tending to centres all over France.
The man slept on indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of brightness，to sunshine on his face and shadow，to the pattering lumps of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed them，until the sun was low in the west，and the sky was glowing. Then，the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready to go down into the village，roused him.
'Good！'said the sleeper，rising on his elbow.'Two leagues beyond the summit of the hill？'
'About.'
'About. Good！'
The mender of roads went home，with the dust going on before him according to the set of the wind，and was soon at the fountain，squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink，and appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village. When the village had taken its poor supper，it did not creep to bed，as it usually did，but came out of doors again，and remained there.A curious contagion of whispering was upon it，and also，when it gathered together at the fountain in the dark，another curious contagion of looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only.Monsieur Gabelle，chief functionary of the place，became uneasy；went out on his house-top alone，and looked in that direction too；glanced down from behind his chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below，and sent word to the sacristan who kept the keys of the church，that there might be need to ring the tocsin by-and-by.
The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau，keeping its solitary state apart，moved in a rising wind，as though they threatened the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom.Up the two terrace flights of steps the rain ran wildly，and beat at the great door，like a swift messenger rousing those within；uneasy rushes of wind went through the hall，among the old spears and knives，and passed lamenting up the stairs，and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis had slept.East，West，North，and South，through the woods，four heavy-treading，unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the branches，striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard.Four lights broke out there，and moved away in different directions，and all was black again.
But，not for long. Presently，the chateau began to make itself strangely visible by some light of its own，as though it were growing luminous.Then，a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front，picking out transparent places，andshowing where balustrades，arches，and windows were.Then it soared higher，and grew broader and brighter.Soon，from a score of the great windows，flames burst forth，and the stone faces awakened，stared out of fire.
