“Precisely. And this goes with what I told you before. There will be delays. We shall have more time than we thought we had, and we shall save Condé. _Parbleu!_ You will attend the meeting before starting for Poitou, and now for the hour.” He buckled on his sword and, stepping to the window, opened the shutter. The storm had passed. It had ceased snowing, and morning was at hand. The forest lay beneath us, but we could make out nothing except a confused mass of dun shadow, streaked here and there with patches of white. Above it shifted an uneasy sea of cloud, through which, in the distant west, still glimmered the beacon fire on Beaulieu. Above the clouds there was a faint light, which, weak as it was, paled the glow of the lantern, and as we looked, a cock crowed shrilly. “Hark!” exclaimed Marcilly; “day at last! It is time to start. Badehorn--the horses.” And in a half-hour we were trotting through the snow toward Chenonceaux. Our way was still through the chill arcades of the forest, yet dripping with melting snow. At first we were almost numbed with the cold, but the quick motion soon warmed our blood. Each moment it became lighter, and there was every prospect of the mild winter of the Land of Quinces giving us a fair day, such a storm as that of the night being unusual in the Orléanais. Although I had not slept, my mental excitement kept me unwearied; the interest of the adventure had seized hold of me, and in the struggle I had with myself I believed I had cast off the serpent’s skin of disloyal thought to my friend, and had no fear that I would reclothe myself in it. Now and again I was haunted by the recollection of Ponthieu; but I could not help reflecting that Marcilly was right, and that the best thing for my poor friend was to wait until we reached Orleans, and there use our influence, which was not small, to get him freed. It was running a risk, and it would have been more to my taste to have cut for him with the sword; but we did not even know where he was confined, and our enterprise would not permit us to linger on the heels of time. I say this in defence of what might otherwise have seemed unworthy conduct on my part. In this miserable confession of my folly and sin I have been utterly honest, and I cling, God alone knows why, to the memory of every small action that goes to show I was once not wholly lost. What Marcilly was thinking of I know not. Perhaps in this early dawn he was reflecting on the sacrifice he was about to make. As far as he was concerned, he was going to almost certain death. Mayhap some thought of this was working in his mind, as for once his cheery light heart seemed to have left him, and he rode with his head held down and his hat pulled over his brow.