but the next day mademoiselle de narbonne would not let us go.

"there is no need for haste," said she. "consider for yourself; truly there is no haste. jean volran, once his blood is cool, will kill no horses riding to tell his master your plot has failed. this time bad news will bait by the way. even then that woman is in no danger. the king is not wanton in his wickedness. with him evil has a purpose, and he is ruthless rather than cruel. the woman will be safe for at least a week."

she was right, and in the reaction which followed the high-strung tension of the conflict at la voulle, judge if i did not catch greedily at the procrastination. but not for a week; the risk every way was too great; two days perhaps.

"two days?" she repeated, glancing at paul. "what do you say to that, mon père?"

"sufficient, i think," he answered thoughtfully. "yes, more than sufficient, for we had last night."

"good! on tuesday, then," said she, and the two left me.

more than sufficient! that was a hard saying, and not like father paul. yet even to me the hard saying was a true one. these two days were more than sufficient to weary me of morsigny, for in them i was left to isolation, except for a half hour thrice a day when we came together to break our fast. now that her nurse's masquerade was over, mademoiselle de narbonne appeared to be burdened with affairs, and it may be that there were letters to write, for couriers were sent away thrice, once to pau, and twice to pamplona.

i suppose paul guided her in these, for not even he was visible, until at last, having haunted morsigny all that sunday for a glimpse of his kindly sorrowful face, i shut myself up in my own chamber at sunset, an ill-used, ill-tempered man. of what use was it to say, wait two days, if in them i was shut up to my own thoughts for company? not even mademoiselle's rose, nodding towards me across a rim of glass, was any comfort.

i do not think there ever yet was a man who never repented of making a great sacrifice. in his soul he knows he was right, but the baser part of him repents, and there never was a man yet whose baser part did not get the upper hand at times, while with most of us it sits astride on top.

i was five-and-twenty, and loved life with the natural, wholesome, riotous love of any healthy animal. of death or the judgment to follow i had no conscious fear, but the life i lived was sweet and good and satisfying. it suited the flesh of my manhood's robust strength as no other life could, suited it exactly as the lord god meant it should; and so, as i stared, chin on palm, above the blown rose at the blue of the far-off hills, i asked myself if i had not been a fool?

my oath? oaths comfort no dead men, and mademoiselle had herself torn the figment of my oath to tatters. brigitta? again i called mademoiselle to witness; had she not said the king had a method in his wickedness? his cruelty was not the lust to kill for killing's sake. with a fright, a whipping perhaps, he would let her go. her healthy flesh would heal, her peasant's mind would take no shame. in six months' time she would be none the worse except for a scar or two on the back, none the worse body or soul, while i——? clenching my fist i struck it against the table. instantly a small soft voice answered me, a voice without words. mademoiselle's rose had fallen, and the heavy petals whispered as they toppled on the polished wood; one, two, a dozen; those left, trembling at the shock of loss, nodding a farewell before they, too, lost their hold on life.

"see, old friend of yesterday," they said, "see what comes to all of us. we do our little work in the world, and then—we go. we give a little of sweetness, a little of perfume to the dry, dull air of the world, we breathe a little of love, a little of promise, our best and all we have, and then, having done our work in the world—we go!"

ay! we go! but we do not go utterly. even my rose had left something of its sweetness behind. from the petals gathered in my palm the breath of yesterday flowed upwards, perfumed and delicious. my rose was gone, yes, but it was not utterly gone. its memory lived, fragrant and undying. surely, surely, i could at least leave as sweet a name behind me as a rose of yesterday!

"we go, old friend," said i, nodding back at the shaking petals. "yes, we go; but if truly we have done our work in the world, and if our memory lives in fragrance after us, what does it greatly matter?" and—will it be believed?—i drew strength and comfort from the withering petals flattened in my palm.

there was much need for both. monday was as the sunday had been. mademoiselle and brother paul were busied everywhere but where gaspard hellewyl looked for them, nor did we meet till supper. then mademoiselle was restrained, preoccupied, eating little and talking less; her only reference to the next day's departure being a cold enquiry as to when i desired the horses. had we been going for one of our rides, as in the blessed days of july, she would have shown more animation.

"eight o'clock," i answered, steeling myself to an equal coldness. "we must ride to orthez; the king's post at la voulle is temporarily closed. may i suggest, mademoiselle, that you should keep a watchful eye on the next tenant?"

"orthez!" repeated she thoughtfully. "yes, eight o'clock should do."

"oh, mademoiselle!" said i, with an elaborate show of courtesy to cover my bitterness, "if the hour is inconvenient we can always leave—earlier! but i do not think you need be afraid for morsigny. the king knows you are warned. shut your door upon our backs and you are safe."

she looked aside abruptly before replying, and when she turned to face me again her eyes were brimming, though her mouth was hard set.

"you think us ungrateful, monsieur, you think us callous, you think us cold; but you think wrong in all three. but there is, i pray god, a life to be saved, if to save it is possible, and there is much to be thought of, much to be planned. you will excuse me for to-night? to me the danger is greater than you admit—i cannot bear to speak of it. i am more truly a woman than you credit, and—and—god keep you, monsieur, now and always!"

before i could reply she had gone, still half mumbling the words between her shut teeth, leaving me touched to the heart with self-reproach. not that i believed the danger to the boy was serious. now that his scheme was laid bare, louis would resort to no impolitic violence; but love, given unreservedly as mademoiselle's love was given to little gaston, is never calmly rational, but, over-anxious, measures danger by its own depth.

the next morning brother paulus and i broke our fast alone, nor did i see mademoiselle until the horses stood by the mounting-blocks. that she had rested badly, sleeping little or none at all, was plain from the black hollows which underlay her eyes. even gaston saw the change.

"suzanne is ugly to-day, monsieur gaspard," said he, running forward to feed roland with a morsel of bread. "i think she has been crying. that is silly, suzanne, for if people go away they always come back."

"let him think so," said she, trying to smile as she shook a finger at him. "to me it seems a sin to make a child sorrowful. come and say good-bye to monsieur gaspard, gaston."

it was strange, almost grotesque, certainly pathetic, how the child in him froze to the dignity of the count of foix.

"goodbye, monsieur," said he, coming forward sedately, but with a back-turned glance of regret at roland whinnying after him. "my father, the count de narbonne, will be sorry—oh, you have a new kind of spurs on, monsieur gaspard! suzanne! do you see? is that because you have so far to ride."

"goodbye, monsieur gaston," said i, smiling in spite of my heavy heart at his struggle to be two such incongruities at the one minute as a dignified prince and a wholesome-natured child of six. "when next we ride together we must have just such another famous gallop as we had on saturday."

"shall we? shall we?" he cried, gleefully clapping his hands, the prince all flung to the wind. "oh, but it was grand, that ride from la voulle! suzanne, you would have thought the king of france was after us, we rode so fast."

but mademoiselle had me by the hand, and was biting her lip, so that i said my farewells hastily.

"god bless you, mademoiselle! only he knows what you have been to me in my weakness," and stooping, i kissed her hand as i had kissed it once before. "it is not so very hard; never believe that it has been very hard. father paul——"

but father paul was fairly crying, and when i saw the tears running unrestrained down his cheeks, i judged it time to be in the saddle, lest i should disgrace my manhood. to weep at a friend's grave is no shame, but a man who rides in his own funeral should keep back his tears that others may not suffer with him.

what benediction was in father paul's heart i do not know, for his tongue turned traitor and would not speak, but i have no doubt that he to whom it was addressed heard and recorded it.

almost in silence i left the great door of morsigny, but not the outer gate. there waited hugues, 'tuco, antony, and the rest, all who had so rightly mistrusted me. they were in two lines, between which we rode bareheaded as they. at first they were dumb, and stood to arms as soldiers stand when a fellow soldier goes where a soldier may look to go in the fulfilment of his duty. but as we passed beneath the teeth of the portcullis a roar followed us, a cheer, a hoarse shout like the rumble of thunder, "vive hellewyl! vive solignac! vive flanders!"

at the shout i turned in the saddle, my heart beating fast, my eyes wet, and the last i saw of morsigny was not mademoiselle's white face, nor brother paul's tears, but a forest of bare steel shaken in the air, and quivering like fire as the sun caught the flat of the friendly blades. truly it was something of a triumph that navarre should cheer a man of flanders who came by way of plessis-les-tours!

but the mockery of it. vive hellewyl! vive solignac! long live the man who dies within two weeks! long live the man who rides in his own funeral! long live solignac of the burnt roof-tree! solignac, the harbour for owls and bats! they might as well cry, long live death and destruction! and yet at the ring of the hoarse roar my blood warmed, my eyes lightened, and my heart leaped. gaspard hellewyl would pass as the over-blown rose had passed, but his memory would live, and morsigny would hold it fragrant. there was some comfort in that to the man who so dearly and without hope loved the mistress of morsigny.

but such comfort soon passes; the spirit needs stronger meat than a windy cheer, however well meant, to keep it in health, and as my pulses calmed i saw facts in their true proportions. so long as i was at morsigny, so long as i was in touch with mademoiselle, she was the prism at which i looked at life and the hours shone red or blue at her mood's pleasure. now that was finally done with, and thenceforward if there was a light at all it was cold and passionless. in that glamour of interweaving reds and blues i could play the stoic and say, it is not so very hard. and at the time it was true. we all have a high note in us, though all too soon it dies away in a quaver.

nor was martin helpful. sour and disconsolate he rode behind, whistling a dies irae, dies illa of his own composing, until morsigny was no longer in sight. then, according to custom, he spurred up ninus until his muzzle was a foot or two ahead of my girth.

"i don't understand it at all, monsieur gaspard. we come to a place where we plainly were not wanted, stay there two months playing ourselves, then ride back where plainly we do not want to go. why is all that? do you remember, we were to roof over solignac, redeem the old lands, and catch jan meert, and when we rode from morsigny we were to ride as if the devil or tristan were after us. but here we are, pricking along leisurely, as if——"

"tristan was before us, which he is. cannot you see that we have failed?"

"and solignac?"

"my poor martin, there is no more a solignac."

"and the lands?"

"never again will a hellewyl have lands in flanders."

"jan meert?"

"perhaps," said i, grimly, "perhaps jan meert. the king has promised we shall meet, and when it suits him to do so he keeps his word."

"the king?" a spasm had poor martin by the throat, just as in my room at morsigny when the noosed cord was dangled in his face.

"for me," said i, "but not for you. i go to plessis, but you—to solignac, i think, will be safest."

his only answer was the reproach in his eyes, and a "god forgive you, monsieur gaspard," as he reined back again. of course, he meant that where i went there would he go also: nor, so complete was his faith that what i did was the one and only thing that could be done, did he attempt remonstrance or persuasion.

but ten minutes later i heard the sober trot of the hoofs behind me quicken to a clatter, and again martin pricked up alongside, but this time he was smiling.

"i have it, monsieur gaspard! we have failed"—he never stopped to ask in what, or to say the failure was none of his, since he did not even know the scheme—"we failed, but that was because they were too many for us. and what is more, we did our best, did all that men could do, for they killed you, and as you lay a-dying, with your last breath you bade me ride to plessis and tell the king all that had happened. meanwhile, you will go to solignac by way of auvergne, burgundy, and lorraine, and i, when—when—the king has rewarded me, as of course, he will," he went on, whimpering in spite of the gay prospect, the excessive brightness of which made his eyes water, and his mouth to tremble with a queer smile, "i'll join you there, and—and—; there, that's settled, but i think you need not go to orthez."

"and tell me, how does king louis reward failures?"

for a moment he blinked in silence, but though the shadow on his face deepened, his voice was brave as he answered—"this was no common failure."

"you are right, old friend," said i, grimly twisting his meaning. "it was, indeed, no common failure, and what is more, news of it is already on the way, so that the king will have ample time to prepare the reward. what shall we do with it when we get it, you and i?"

"don't laugh at me, master gaspard, for i can't bear it," he answered gruffly. "and why should i not go to plessis? why should i not die for you? what use is a man's love if it can't do a—a—little thing like that? why can't i go to plessis, monsieur gaspard?"

"because, old friend, there are some debts a man must pay for himself; because, too, in your heart of hearts, you would not have the last hellewyl of solignac turn coward, even to save his life."

for a moment he looked me straight in the face, saying nothing; then, raising his hand to a salute, he turned ninus back, and thenceforward we rode apart. even at saint laurent, where, by mademoiselle's suggestion, we halted to bait, he kept his distance. his only explanation was a gruff, "a man who isn't good enough to die for another isn't good enough to live with him, or eat or drink with him either, monsieur gaspard."

so, also, was it through the afternoon. he trailed a dozen lengths behind me, the packhorse dragging uncursed from his hooked elbow, and it was with a dreary sense of isolation, of being outcast from all love and sympathy in the world, that i rode into the court of the inn at orthez, to see mademoiselle's face smiling at me from the doorway.