The landlord came—the same wiry hatchet-faced fellow who had taken my dagger. Not a sign of recognition showed on his face. As though he had never laid eyes on me before, he bowed graciously to us, asked us what we would eat and was off. While we sat waiting, I ran my eyes searchingly around the room. In the semidarkness of the old lanthorn, I noticed De Marsac sitting over his supper with the same smile upon his face. Soldiers came in and out, some of them to bring reports to their master, others to snatch a bite and to make off again. I rested my gaze upon my captor. The cap was still drawn down half way over his eyes. The flaring red scarf hung about his neck, reaching well up under his chin. A scowl crossed my brow. I fastened a look on him that was filled with hate and chagrin. His two beady eyes twinkled their strange light into mine as though they were laughing at me. The corners of his lips curled slightly up in amusement. Then he winked slyly at me as though there was something I ought to understand. I grew interested. As though he were a curiosity, I began to examine him more closely. The shine of those eyes and the slight arch of his nose seemed strangely familiar to me. “You like to eat, don’t you?” he asked, but in a low tone and in a voice that was different from the heavy growl that he had used on our way to the inn. I leaned towards him across the table. He shot an inquiring glance around the room. Then he put his forefinger straight over his lips. It was a signal that I must be on my guard. With the same motion he let the scarf fall from his chin. I nearly tumbled from the chair. Of all the surprises of my life this was the greatest. For the man whose prisoner I was, who had sold me to De Marsac for a handful of gold, who had betrayed me as though I were the meanest dog, was the man whom I for the past days had considered my closest friend—the scrivener! I opened my mouth and gasped. “You!” was all I could say. “Pist!” he cautioned. “I thought you were dead!” I went on. “Dead?” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Not much.” “Why, I saw you lying there under the tree,” I argued. “I touched you and you didn’t stir.” “No, you didn’t,” he contradicted, “not me.” “Why, your clothes——” I began. He waved his finger before my face. “Ah,” he remarked. “There’s where you are jumping at conclusions. It’s a lesson you’ll have to learn, and you might as well begin now—you should never judge a man by his clothes.” I didn’t know what to say. “Why did you do this?” I demanded finally. “To save your life—and mine,” he answered blandly. “There were too many of them in the woods.” “Don’t you realize that this will be the end of me?” “No,” he replied, “it’s only the beginning.” “Where will they take me?” I asked. “Down the valley of the Loire. Keep your ears and eyes open,” he said with all seriousness. “—and what about you?” “I’m going back,” he replied. “The country’s too dangerous.”