They halted this morning a little earlier than usual. Madame St. Lo had barely answered her companion’s question before the subject of their discussion swung himself from old Sancho’s back, and stood waiting to assist them to dismount. Behind him, where the green valley through which the road passed narrowed to a rocky gate, an old mill stood among willows at the foot of a mound. On the mound behind it a ruined castle which had stood siege in the Hundred Years’ War raised its grey walls; and beyond this the stream which turned the mill poured over rocks with a cool rushing sound that proved irresistible. The men, their horses watered and hobbled, went off, shouting like boys, to bathe below the falls; and after a moment’s hesitation Count Hannibal rose from the grass on which he had flung himself.
“Guard that for me, Madame,” he said. And he dropped a packet, bravely sealed and tied with a silk thread, into the Countess’s lap. “’Twill be safer than leaving it in my clothes. Ohé!” And he turned to Madame St. Lo. “Would you fancy a life that was all gipsying, cousin?” And if there was irony in his voice, there was desire in his eyes.
“There is only one happy man in the world,” she answered, with conviction.
“By name?”
“The hermit of Compiégne.”
“And in a week you would be wild for a masque!” he said cynically. And turning on his heel he followed the men.
Madame St. Lo sighed complacently. “Heigho!” she said. “He’s right! We are never content, ma mie! When I am trifling in the Gallery my heart is in the greenwood. And when I have eaten black bread and drank spring water for a fortnight I do nothing but dream of Zamet’s, and white mulberry tarts! And you are in
