"Nay," replied Pierre wisely, "in that you speak truth, monsieur; but I will explain. The horse of the French knight I discovered two days since, when Petit Pierre and I went at midnight in the footsteps of mademoiselle; it was stabled close to the chapel of the brown friar, and hath there remained till the present. Methinks in his expected exit from the present life, monsieur’s thoughts were too busy with the next to remember his poor steed; and so this morning, ere I returned to the château, I visited the shed and unloosed the poor beast, and, after giving him a meal, I led him to a distant part of the forest, where I tethered him, trusting in the saints that none should chance to pass that way. Also near the chapel I discovered a basket of provisions which the thoughtful care of the beautiful mademoiselle had prepared for her lover; these also I appropriated for the needs of monsieur, therefore methinks that for a fool I have done right well. Is it not so, monsieur?" "Nay," said de Coray warmly, "thou hast done right gallantly, my friend, and great shalt be thy reward in due time, though for the present an empty gratitude must be thy guerdon; but when fortune smiles once more on me, then there shall be golden smiles for thee too, my manikin, as also for thy sweet sister here." "Ay," replied Pierre, drawing himself up proudly, as he led the way into his humble abode, "peasants though we be, monsieur, still there is nobility too in the blood of the Laurents of Arteze, for truly in the veins of our ancestors ran the blood of King Arthur himself, and the renowned Morgana. Is it not so, Gabrielle?" The girl smiled from one to the other. "Nay, my brother," she replied softly, "so our parents told us, but I wot well that there is better truth in the words of our father, that nobility is of the soul rather than the body, and it little matters who our ancestors were, so long as we ourselves wooed honour and virtue for our spouses." "Mademoiselle is wise," said de Coray smoothly, as his glance met hers. And, to his shame perchance, his own fell not beneath the steadfast gaze, but met it, as if he too cherished the ideals imprinted on her pure young brow. Nevertheless, perhaps his heart, false though it was, reproached him as he rode away into the darkness of the night, bearing with him the memory of an upturned face full of sweet, confiding trust and reverence, and eyes which hailed him by a name he had never known. *CHAPTER XI* "And so we say farewell, my Henri?" sighed Gwennola mournfully, and there were tears in the blue eyes raised to Henri d’Estrailles’ dark, handsome face. "Nay, rather, ’au revoir,’ sweet," he replied tenderly, "though I trow that be hard enough to say."