We went off among the thickest of the trees and over ground that was almost impassible for jutting rocks. We made no speed for at every dozen steps the scrivener stopped and peered around. The woods were as silent as a grave with only the faintest breeze blowing in our faces that ruffled the leaves and sighed gently over our heads. Now and then he stooped to examine the ground for signs of footsteps or of human visitation, that is, in places where there was clay or soil. On and on we went, slowly. I for my part had a stifling fear in my heart that boded no good; the scrivener as quiet and preoccupied as I had as yet seen him. By noon we had covered the length of the whole range of hills. We were come into a deep valley with a little stream winding through it. The place was dank with moisture and very dark, for the trees were well watered and the soil lost much of its rockiness. With cautious steps we went ahead. We stumbled over projecting roots and long spindling weeds. A hare started out of the underbrush and nearly frightened me to death. Not a sound did we make save the laboring of our breaths and an occasional rattle when the toe of a boot caught against a scattered stone. We were on the edge of the forest. For a moment the scrivener hesitated and gazed thoughtfully around. He touched me on the arm and with his finger bade me look ahead. The direction in which he pointed was between an opening among the trees. I peered carefully but at first saw nothing. Then, as my eyes got more accustomed to the distance, I was able to make out a thin curl of white smoke rising in the air. When it reached a level with the tops of the trees it scattered and disappeared in the sky. “We can go no further,” the scrivener said. “The whole side of the valley is filled with men.” “—searching for us?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered with a nod of his head. I knew that they were lying there to block us off. My thoughts turned this way and that. I looked at my companion for some sign or other but his face was set with the seriousness of a stone. “Do you think it so fine now to be in danger?” I cast at him. A hard smile caught at the corners of his mouth. “Have I shown fear?” he demanded. “They’re drawing a ring around us,” I said. “We’ll starve in the woods in a day or two. We’ll be as weak as cats. Then they’ll close in.” The scrivener gave a twang to his bow-string. The old spirit of his flashed out for a second and he grinned. “I wish they would close in now,” he replied. “They know the mettle of the highwayman of Tours. They know how I can strike when they least expect it. Pshaw!” He spat contemptuously on the ground. “They have all the same feeling—if they harm a hair of my head, they will die like dogs!” “If you’re not afraid, master scrivener,” I went on, “why are you so serious?” He spun around like a top.