It was in truth their conversation which had kept Louis awake, for he was deadly weary, and had already dozed off only to reawaken, after a more or less troubled period of slumber, to hear the sound of voices, and to see, through the faded green serge curtains of the bed, a close-framed, ill-lit picture of his cousin, seated by the table, his chin propped on his hands, listening, while La Rouërie, all animation, passed in and out of the canvas. And once—or was he dreaming?—they were both standing up, and with them was a man in the dress of a peasant, talking as eagerly as they. These snatches of oblivion deprived him of all sense of time, and when he closed his eyes on the last occasion it might have been midnight, or ten o’clock, or the small hours. It was consequently a surprise to him when he was awakened by a hand on his shoulder, and, looking up, found Gilbert standing over him and the room full of daylight. “Is it morning?” he exclaimed. “Where is M. de la Rouërie?” “Gone,” said Gilbert briefly. “It is half-past six. Are you well enough to go on, do you think? We ought to get to Entrammes or beyond to-day.” * * * * * * “I am sorry not to have said farewell to ‘Monsieur Milet,’ that excellent surgeon,” remarked Louis later, as they moved off, with their unwilling hostess scowling at them from the doorstep. “And, by the way, hadn’t you a third person participating in your interminable conversation last night, or was I dreaming?” “No, you were not dreaming,” returned his cousin. “It was the man whom M. de la Rouërie came here to meet—a salt-smuggler named Jean Cottereau or Chouan.” CHAPTER XXIII TRAVELS OF AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN “Well hail’d, well hail’d, you jolly gallants, And whither are you bound-a? O let me have your company till We come unto the Sound-a.” —_The Two Noble Kinsmen_. As the sun set on Nuillé-sur-Vicoin a single horseman clattered into its main street, and, drawing rein before the Soleil d’Or, looked about him. Mr Harry Trenchard had been journeying in France for pleasure, but even to his impassivity there had come an intimation that the pleasure was well-nigh over, and that its place was being taken by an increasing peril which was not, however, without its own charm. The young man—he might have been thirty—was therefore proceeding to Nantes by leisurely stages, and on horseback, as his custom was, he having a dislike to the diligence. Tall, well-built, well-dressed, he sat his mare with a confident aspect, and as he looked along the almost deserted street he exclaimed aloud at the negligence of the hostelry which hung out its sign of refreshment and provided no ostler to hold the steed of the traveller.