“One word more,” called André after him. “Is it too much for us to know your name?” The stranger stopped on the fringe of the woods. He turned and looked back. “My father sits upon the English throne,” he said. “I am known as the Black Prince!” Slowly and sadly, with the body of the old Lord of Gramont borne tenderly among us, we wended our way towards our home. We had much to talk about, but in our grief we held our tongues. We passed each other with bowed heads and sorrowful faces. There was a gloom about the place like the coldness of death. We laid the old warrior away in the tomb of his fathers. In the evening we sat alone together—André and I—in the light of the candles. The early September day had been unusually warm and the casements were flung wide. The servants had long since gone to bed. There was scarcely a sound except our own breathing. “I must go, Henri, to the Abbot of Chalonnes,” said my brother, breaking the silence. “There must be no more delay.” “If you go,” I answered, “De Marsac will appear again. There will be no one left to defend the estate.” André bit his lips but did not answer. He walked across the room and stood at the side of the great oaken table in the centre of the room. I arose, too, and stood opposite him. “Let us toss for it, André,” said I taking a newly-minted groat from my pocket. “If it fall heads, you go, shields, I go.” I flung the piece in the air. It fell, but fell on its edge and rolled down from the table across the room. I was about to go after it when an arrow came floating through the open window. It struck with a click and fastened its point in the hard wood. Upon the shaft, wound with a tight cord, was tied a small piece of parchment. André drew back. “Another enemy!” he cried. “Will there never be an end?” “No,” said I. “You are wrong. This time it is a friend.” With feverish fingers I drew the arrow from the wood and unrolled the parchment. With a kind of inward triumph I spread it open before my brother’s eyes. At the bottom there was drawn the figure of a leopard, very roughly to be sure, but still as plain as day. Above it in a scrawl so crude that it could hardly be deciphered were these words: “Send the lad!” “There, André!” said I. “Will this decide it?” My brother waved his hand in the air like a man who yields to the will of Fate and moved across the room. “I stay,” he said, and sank into the nearest chair. CHAPTER VIII THE SILVER-HAFTED DAGGER