This
was historic country that Fred was traversing, the same country that had
trembled beneath the thundering march of Napoleon's grand army more than
a hundred years before, when the great Emperor had launched the mad
adventure against Russia that had sealed his fate.
But he didn't think of these things, except of Napoleon, as he trudged
along. Once more he traveled through the night. Once more, as the first
signs of morning came, he began to feel tired, and, despite the food he
had carried with him which he had stopped to eat about midnight, he was
hungry. And, as had been the case on the night of his tramp from
Virballen, the first rays of the rising sun showed him a village. It was
in a hollow, and above it the ground rose sharply to a large house,
evidently very old, built of a grey stone that had been weathered by the
winds and rains of centuries. It was a very old house, and strangely
out of tune, it seemed to Fred, with the country though not with the
times. It was so old that it showed some traces of fortification, and
Fred knew how long it was since private houses had been built with any
view to defence. It was a survivor of the days when this whole region
had been an outpost of civilization against hordes of barbarian
invaders.
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