“Well, there is one chance, and only one chance, of safety. It is with me. If I reach the Constable in three days we may yet save the Prince. But my horse is lame, dead lame. Had this not happened, I would have gone through the storm--but here I am, tied by the leg. Can you lend me a horse?” “I, too, have my business, Ponthieu, and life hangs on that. We have no spare horse.” “Then Condé dies,” he answered. “An apple for your penny, Ponthieu--Condé will not die.” He snapped his fingers. “You little know the Lorrainers. But I have that which would cut their combs, had I but four swift hoofs beneath me. See here, Vibrac! We are all hilt-deep in this business. If Condé dies, we die. Think of something.” I kicked at the fireplace with my boot, and racked my brains until a thought--it was a forlorn hope--struck me. “I have no horse to lend, Ponthieu, but,” and I smiled at the idea, “there is a chance. Perhaps the Bishop of Arles has one in the stable. Why not borrow it and go?” He slapped his thigh and laughed out loudly, a big, strong laugh. “Blood of a Jew! as we used to say in the Sicilies. Vibrac, you will die a marshal. The idea is excellent, and there is no time like the present. Ha! ha! ha!” and he rose to his feet. “It is too early--wait till the little hours. If things go wrong, and the papers on you----” “Never let your soup grow cold. It must be now or never. If I am caught, ’tis but a blank paper they will find; but you know the secret--a trifle of water, and--_pff!_ No! I will have no help--you are mad, my good friend, think of your own affair.” “True!” I answered. “You are right; but take my advice, and wait. You will lose your way--never get through the storm.” “Way or no way, storm or no storm, I must risk it, and to-morrow Monsieur of Arles will have to exercise some of that Christian resignation he has no doubt often preached about.” Nothing I could say would dissuade him, and I more than regretted my speech. His preparations were quickly made. He but buckled his sword tighter, drank another cup of Rochecorbon, and unbarred the window. “It is cold,” he said, as he looked out, “and snowing swords.” “Be advised, Ponthieu!” But he shook his head and wrung my hand. Then he hung over the window for a moment, and dropped into the snow. As I closed the shutter, I saw him, a dark figure, crossing the dim shaft of light that ran out into the night, and a moment after he was lost in the dark. With a shiver, I put up the bar, and turned back to my seat at the fire.