"I feel little doubt of it. However, he'll hardly clear Dartmouth, or Tor Quay either. Grace, Grace! Poor child--how true--Hesiod--Earth and Chaos are the parents of Love. Now I must lift myself out of this chair again! Fifteen hours in the saddle--three horses. Do for pity's sake get me a bumper of strong drink, Annabel. And my wedding breeches--worn out. Only just now off to the War Prison! Tut, tut! His rage has made him blind." "He has been brave as a lion and done ten men's work." "Ten fools' work, you mean. 'When valour preys on reason, it eats the sword it fights with.'" "I fear, indeed, for his reason, and for his precious neck. He is worn out in mind and body, and ought to be in bed instead of on horseback." "So ought I. Send the drink to my usual room, my dear. And bid them call me in three hours. Make 'em wake me whether I will or not in three hours' time." "If my Maurice would but listen to sense!" "Men don't change the habits of a lifetime at fifty. What does Cicero say? '_Utatur motu animi_----' I'm too sleepy to talk English, let alone Latin. 'He only uses passion who cannot use reason.' A very unreasonable man is Malherb." "You shall not criticise him at such a pass, Peter. None shall. This wicked girl may cost him his life--you and she between you. No man ever led a more honourable and single-hearted existence. He is always trying to do right." "Yes, I know all that. A man trying to do right is only interesting as long as he fails. Malherb has never yet ceased to interest me." "Go sleep, cousin. You are saying things you would not say in your proper senses." He rose with a groan and hobbled painfully to the door. "Death and fury! I'm an old man myself this morning; gone in the hams and gone in the head! How I ache! But wait until to-morrow. 'When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war.' We'll catch my gipsy to-morrow. Don't forget the beverage, Annabel. Half a pint of champagne and a little drop of brandy in it. A drink for heroes. And a hero I am, if ever there was one." CHAPTER IX THE FIRST THROUGH THE TUNNEL Maurice Malherb, worn with futile rage and toil, now turned his face towards the War Prison, and cursed himself as he rode along, because he had left this vital business until now. Dawn saw him far upon his way, and its grey light touched his grey face and revealed new marks of storm for ever stamped there. His cheeks were somewhat sunken; his life and energies seemed concentrated in his eyes. He sat heavy and inert upon his horse, yet sometimes spoke aloud. His eyes were never still. Their dark gaze ranged the desert, and nothing, near nor far, escaped his scrutiny in the murk of the dawn. The chill hour cooled his forehead and helped him to reflect.