“Go, and await us at the palace gates. If we are not there in an hour, you may return home and tell the Vicomte.” They were men to whom orders were orders, not things to be questioned. They simply saluted and rode on, gray shadows in the mist; and then I said to the Prince: “Now, Monseigneur!” He was leaning back in his saddle, straining his eyes through the yellow fog back upon the Rue Parisis. “If they touch a hair of their heads,” he muttered, “they will never forget the vengeance of Bourbon,” and he turned to me as I pressed him again with another reminder. “Come, de Vibrac! You are right. Let us hasten.” We put our horses to the trot, slipping through the dim day like ghosts, down the long streets where the houses loomed on each hand like phantom buildings, through the straggling Portereau, and at last, freeing the gates, gained the open country. Condé rode a little in front of me, his hat pulled over his brows, the collar of his coat well turned up, and his head held down. We went on in silence, for it was not a time for talk. When we passed the city gates, a little breeze sprang up, lifting the mist, and blowing it along in billows that chased each other like the breakers on a sea-bound coast. The sun, which had hitherto burned dully through the fog, a great orange globe of fire, now began to cast its clear light upon the landscape. As the cheery beams fell upon us, Condé awoke from his torpor of thought and slackened the steady canter at which he was going to a walk. “Come!” he said, “we are not two monks of La Trappe. Tell me, Vibrac, how you disposed of de Bresy? how you put him in a cage? Oh! they will laugh! They will make verses about him!” he went on, breaking into laughter himself. But I was in no mood for mirth or talk. I wanted to get the business over, and I said gravely: “Monseigneur! It is a long story, and the Constable is far. I pray you, let us hasten on! No one knows what danger may lie within these woods.” And I looked to the right and to the left of me, where the sunlight cast its swords of flame into the shivering, uneasy mist; down the long glades which the bright rays carpeted with gold, and behind the tall and tangled brushwood that hid the winter-stricken tree-trunks. I almost hoped to catch somewhere the gleam of a breastplate or the flash of a sword. The sooner things were over the better. But no! For all I could see, we might as well have been on some desert island in mid-ocean, as on that desolate and unending forest way. Condé had followed my glance and noticed the grave tone of my voice. “_Pardieu!_” he said, “but you are a dull dog!” And then, in his quick, impulsive way, he stretched out his hand. “I did not mean to offend you. Ah! monsieur! Believe me! I thank God that He has given Louis of Bourbon such friends as you.” I could not touch his hand. I was not so base as that; and I felt my face burn as I saluted him, saying with a voice that shook despite my efforts: