“Pardon!” and the man spoke in whispers, “he sleeps, and will not hear. ’Tis some free companion of the road, I fear. But, messire, I have not forgotten a certain meeting in the woods of Loches. In the dusk of the evening six gentlemen met the Prince of Condé by the oak of King Louis. You know the tree, with its trunk mottled as if with leprosy, and spreading its arms wide enough to shelter a company of horse! These six gentlemen, I say, met the Prince, who came alone, and they spoke it may be for an hour together. The heads of four of the six now wither on the spikes of the castle gates of Amboise. The fifth was a great noble from the north, and the sixth--he was, I remember now, the Sieur de Vibrac, a gentleman of the Ruergue.” “Hist! Fool! How do you know all this?” “Messire, there was a man in the wood, who had come there by chance and with no evil intent. He was observed and seized. It was thought he was a spy, and the Comte de Ste. Marie would have slain him then and there with his poniard, but you, messire, interposed and saved him. I was that man. It was twilight at the time, and even if it had not been dusk a noble like you would not have remembered me. But I have not forgotten, for life is dear, messire, and you gave it to me once. And so I warn you. There is danger here, and I am powerless to help.” “The Bishop of Arles?” My voice was so low it might have been the humming of a bee. He but nodded his head, and I went on. “Consider your debt paid, and I thank you; but we fear him not.” “Ah, messire! He is bad, bad, and I dread him.” “But we do not, and we will care for ourselves,” and now, seeing that the man would talk for ever, and being unwilling to exchange further confidences, I raised my voice, saying, “Maître Pechaud, for I believe that is your name, it grows late----” “And Messire de Vibrac would retire. Pardon my chattering. I will but show the way to the chamber.” “Thanks! Yet stay! On second thoughts I will not go now. I have some matters to think upon. But let me not detain you.” “Messire.” “Let it be as I have said, Maître Pechaud. For me it is not yet night,” and I lowered my voice once more, saying, “it would perhaps be ill, if you and I were seen gossiping together.” “Messire is right. The chamber is on the third story in the beacon tower, and the stairway in the hall leads straight to it. It cannot be missed. The flask is nearly full, I think.” “Yes, thanks. Good-night!” “Good-night, messire!” and he retired, stopping but for a moment to give a respectful greeting to the surly stranger, who made no reply, but sat like a stone, his square shoulders and broad back turned toward us. Though I observed this rudeness, and might at another time have resented it as it deserved, I did not do so now. My mind was full of other things, and, for all I was concerned, the man was no more to me than a chair or the big press that concealed an angle of the room.