"The gift of beauty; for she is beautiful, but seems to know it not. And it may be that her beauty is too cold and stately; it has not the brightness, the joyousness, that should accompany the beauty of youth. But you will see her ere long. Observe, those whom I come to dwell with for a time are at the door. Farewell--nay, _au revoir_ only, since you will not enter. _Adieu_ till next we meet. You know the house now; the door stands ever open to those who are my friends." CHAPTER XII. On that long quay over which the coach had passed but just now, Bevill Bracton, as he rode by its side, had observed an ancient inn, as all things were ancient in this old-world land--one that bore on its front the name, "Gouden Leeuw," and testified as to what its Walloon significance might be by having beneath it a fierce-looking gilt monster, that might be intended for a lion, as sign. "That should be the house for me," Bevill thought, as now he rode back towards it. "A front room here, on the lower floor, if it may be obtained; the river almost at its feet, boats tied to old posts and stanchions. All is well. If danger threatens, as well it may, then have I the way open to me." For Bevill had not been a soldier for nothing, nor had he forgotten that he who attempts daring deeds should ever have a retreat open in case of need. That the business he was now about was, in absolute truth, of almost foolhardy daring he had known and recognised from the moment he decided to undertake it as he stood before the Earl of Peterborough at Fulham; while, as he advanced farther and farther through a land which, though not itself hostile to England, was in the clutches of England's greatest enemy, he had more and more recognised this to be the case. But now that he was here, in a city surrounded by those who had possessed themselves of it during a peace that had never been a complete one, a city whose heights and strong places were full of the enemy, he allowed no delusions to prevent him from acknowledging the perils by which he was surrounded. If he should be suspected, watched, and either denounced or arrested, there would be no hope for him. He was neither a soldier who would be saved by his calling nor a political agent who could be saved by any mission that might have been entrusted to him. He was merely a subject of the greatest enemy of France, disguised under a French name; a man who could have no ostensible reason for being here except as a spy. [Illustration: "Impressed it with a ring he wore."]