Yet, though all my soul was steeled into resolution, there was no ray of hope in my heart--nothing but a dead, bleak outlook, a land of moors and rain, an empty purse and an aimless journey. I had come to the house a beggar scarce two months before. I must now go as I had come, not free and careless as then, but bursting shackles of triple brass. My old ragged garments, which I had discarded on the day after my arrival, lay on a chair, neatly folded by Anne's deft hand. It behooved me to take no more away than that which I had brought, so I must needs clothe myself in these poor remnants of finery, thin and mud-stained, and filled with many rents. CHAPTER X. OF MY DEPARTURE. I passed through the kitchen out to the stable, marking as I went that the breakfast was ready laid in the sitting room. There I saddled Saladin, grown sleek by fat living, and rolling his great eyes at me wonderingly. I tested the joinings, buckled the girth tight, and led him round to the front of the house, where I tethered him to a tree and entered the door. A savory smell of hot meats came from the room and a bright wood fire drove away the grayness of the morning. Anne stood by the table, slicing a loaf and looking ever and anon to the entrance. Her face was pale as if with sleeplessness and weeping. Her hair was not so daintily arranged as was her wont. It seemed almost as if she had augured the future. A strange catch--coming as such songs do from nowhere and meaning nothing--ran constantly in my head. 'Twas one of Philippe Desportes', that very song which the Duke de Guise sang just before his death. So, as I entered, I found myself humming half unwittingly: "Nous verrons, bergère Rosette, Qui premier s'en repentira." Anne looked up as if startled at my coming, and when she saw my dress glanced fearfully at my face. It must have told her some tale, for a red flush mounted to her brow and abode there. I picked up a loaf from the table. 'Twas my one sacrifice to the gods of hospitality. 'Twould serve, I thought, for the first stage in my journey. Anne looked up at me with a kind of confused wonder. She laughed, but there was little mirth in her laughter. "Why, what would you do with the loaf?" said she. "Do you seek to visit the widows and fatherless in their affliction?" "Nay," said I gravely. "I would but keep myself unspotted from the world." All merriment died out of her face. "And what would you do?" she stammered. "The time has come for me to leave, Mistress Anne. My horse is saddled at the door. I have been here long enough; ay, and too long. I thank you with all my heart for your kindness, and I would seek to repay it by ridding you of my company." I fear I spoke harshly, but 'twas to hide my emotion, which bade fair to overpower me and ruin all. "Oh, and why will you go?" she cried. "Farewell, Anne," I said, looking at her fixedly, and I saw that she divined the reason. I turned on my heel, and went out from the room.