"True, reverend sir, I trust I may ever remember that," and rising, I put my hand on St. Armande's shoulder, "come, chevalier, I go to take a turn outside, will you join me?" He rose with pleasure on his face. On our way out we passed through the great hall, and listened for a moment to Jacopo, who in a tuneful voice was singing a Tuscan love song. So absorbed was he and his audience, that they did not observe us, nor did our footfalls attract any attention as we passed out into the open air. The moon was still young enough for all the stars to be visible, and leaning over the ruined battlements we looked out into the night. Far below us we heard the river, murmuring onwards towards the sea, behind us the castle stood grim and silent, a red light showing from the windows of the hall, through which we could catch the lilting chorus to Jacopo's song. For a time neither of us spoke, and then to make some conversation I turned to my companion. "Who is that abbé, chevalier, who accompanies you everywhere? Not a tutor surely?" "In a way--yes," he answered, "he was born and brought up on our estates, and is a faithful servant of our house--you must know," he went on, "that in Picardy, the name of St. Armande is honoured as that of the king. I would trust Carillon with more than my life; my honour, if need be; for he and his fathers have served us more faithfully I fear than we have served France." "Not more faithfully than you mean to though--eh, St. Armande?" "If I live," was the reply, as he made a slight gesture, a movement of the head that brought back to me the shadowy memory I was always trying to grasp. "Live--why of course you will live," I answered. "I shall not see the sun set to-morrow." I looked at him blankly for a moment. Moon and stars were sufficient to light his face, so that I could see the sad, far-away eyes, eyes more fit for a saint than a soldier. "_Animo!_ Do not talk like that. It is nonsense," but I felt a foreboding myself that I could not account for, and it chilled me. "It is not nonsense," he said in his dreamy voice, and then, as if rousing suddenly, "Cavaliere--di Savelli--I want you to promise me one thing. Do not hesitate; but promise. It is about myself I ask--will you?" and he held me by the arm with his slight fingers that I felt were shaking. To soothe him I answered gravely, "I promise." "I know that I will not live beyond to-morrow. When I die, bury me as I am--here--here in this ruin--and--and you will not forget me, will you?" As he said this his voice took a cadence, his face took an expression that suddenly brought back a hundred old memories, no longer vague and misty, but clear and distinct. In a moment the scales fell from my eyes, and I saw. I seemed to be once more hawking on the banks of the Chiana with madame, I was once more in the aisles of the church at Arezzo, treading down temptation, and bidding farewell to a woman who was trying to be strong.