She hid her blushing face in his arms closing round it.
Pitou closed his eyes not to see, but he did not close his ears, and the sound of a kiss reached them. He tore his hair in despair.
When he came to his senses the loving couple were slowly riding away.
The last words he caught were:
“You are right, Master Isidore; let us ride about for an hour which I will gain by making my nag go faster—he is a good beast who will tell no tales,” she added, merrily.
This was all: the vision vanished. Darkness fell on Pitou’s spirit and he said:
“No more of the farm for me, where I am trodden on and made fun of. I am not going to eat the bread of a woman who is in love with another man, handsomer, richer and more graceful than me, I allow. No, my place is not in the town but in my village of Haramont, where I may find those who will think well of me whether my knees are like knots in a rope or not.”
He marched towards his native place, where his reputation and that of his sword and helmet had preceded him, and where glory awaited him, if not happiness. But we know that perfect bliss is not a human attribute.
CHAPTER VIII.
ANOTHER BLOW.
AS everybody in his village would be abed by ten o’clock, Pitou was glad to find accommodation at the inn, where he slept till seven in the morning. At that hour everybody had risen.