That night I slept but little. The excitement of the day had been too much for me. The old Count’s death, the treachery of De Marsac, and the appearance in our parts of so great and widely known a man as the Black Prince—all this set my brain in a swirl and kindled in it a kind of fire. Besides, too, there was the prospect of the long journey that lay before me, visions of the strange characters I would meet, the odds and ends of places through which I should surely pass, and by no means least of all, the snares and pitfalls that were certain to be a menace to my unwary feet. At the first grey of dawn I was up from my bed. As quickly as I was able I dressed myself in the same clothes that I had worn on the day of the boar-hunt—a jerkin of strong sewed leather, a doublet that would keep out both wind and rain, breeches of soft deer-hide, knitted stockings of our home-spun wool, a pair of shoes that were oiled and worked until they were as pliant as the skin upon my hand—plain clothes, but strong and lasting, clothes that would draw no comment either for their richness or their meanness. And as a last touch I set a little cap with a feather in it upon my head. I breakfasted on a cold meat-pie that was left over from the night before. All was quiet about the house. I thought that as yet there was no one stirring. But when I walked into the open to my surprise there was André coming from the stables, leading a horse on either hand—his own and the one I was accustomed to call mine. “I will ride with you as far as the brow of the hill,” he said, and that in a voice that was almost at a breaking point. I would have answered but a lump as big as an apple rose to my throat, so that without a word I took the reins that he offered me and swung into the saddle. We started down the road at a slow canter. The freshness of the morning air sent the blood tingling through my veins. The brightness of the sun shone on every dewy leaf. The easy motion of the horse had a charm of its own. But with all this I could not scatter the cloud of seriousness that had come between us. Presently we fell into an easy talk, but it was a talk that hid rather than revealed what lay deepest in our bosoms. Not a word was spoken of the happenings of the past week nor of the mission I was on until after more than an hour’s ride. We came to the crest of the hill that rises southward from our home. Here we slowly gathered in the reins. We halted our horses and sat side by side for a moment in silence. Then André drew a long breath and extended his hand. “Good-by, Henri,” he said, and added in a faltering voice, “You will come safe home to me, I know.” That was all. I took his hand in mine. Our eyes met. But I had to turn mine quickly aside again.