“You have your text, have you not, dear brother?” “Yes, certainly.” “Confide it to me.” “Willingly, but to you alone; it is this: ‘The flail which threshes the corn.’” “Oh, magnificent! sublime!” cried the prior. “Now, my father, am I free?” “Yes, my son, go and walk in the way of the Lord.” Gorenflot saddled Panurge, mounted him with the aid of two vigorous monks, and left the convent about seven in the evening. It was the same day on which St. Luc arrived at Paris from Méridor. Gorenflot, having passed through the Rue St. Etienne, was going to have turned to the right, when suddenly Panurge stopped; a strong hand was laid on his croup. “Who is there?” cried Gorenflot, in terror. “A friend.” Gorenflot tried to turn, but he could not. “What do you want?” said he. “Will my venerable brother show me the way to the Corne d’Abondance?” “Morbleu! it is M. Chicot,” cried Gorenflot, joyfully. “Just so; I was going to seek you at the convent, when I saw you come out, and followed you until we were alone. Ventre de biche! how thin you are!” “But what are you carrying, M. Chicot?” said the monk, “you appear laden.” “It is some venison which I have stolen from the king.” “Dear M. Chicot! and under the other arm?” “A bottle of Cyprus wine sent by a king to my king.” “Let me see!” “It is my wine, and I love it much; do not you, brother?” “Oh! oh!” cried Gorenflot, raising his eyes and hands to Heaven, and beginning to sing in a voice which shook the neighboring windows. It was the first time he had sung for a month. CHAPTER LXXIII. DIANA’S SECOND JOURNEY TO PARIS. Let us leave the two friends entering the Corne d’Abondance, and return to the litter of M. Monsoreau and to Bussy, who set out with the intention of following them. Not only is it not difficult for a cavalier well mounted to overtake foot travelers, but it is difficult not to pass them. This happened to Bussy.