He stopped a moment. "Can a yeoman swear himself a gentleman?" he asked. "I think not. I will be more explicit. I give you my oath as a truth-loving person that my name is Starling."
I put up the paper. "Thank you," I said. "And now. Monsieur Starling, we will say good-by. I am only a chance wayfarer here, and leave in an hour. I cannot wish you success, since you are my foe, but I can wish you a safe return to your own kind. I hope that we shall meet again. When I am dealing with a foe that I respect, I prefer him with his hands unbound. Good-day, monsieur."
But he was before me at the door. I saw that my news troubled him.
"You mean," he asked, "that you are leaving here for several days?"
I laid my hand on the latch. "No," I answered. "I leave for several months, monsieur."
"For months! Oh no!" he cried, and he drew back and looked at me. "Then I am like never to see you again," he said thoughtfully. "You have been kind to me." He suddenly thrust out his hand. "Monsieur, I will be more generous than you. I wish you success."
But I would not take his hand on those terms.
"Don't!" I said roughly. "You cannot wish me success. It will mean failure to you—to your people. No, we are foes, and let us wear our colors honestly. Again, I wish you good-day," and, bowing, I raised the latch, and made my way out of the commandant's door.