My mother uttered a little cry of horror.
“Paris! Oh, no, Pierre! How can you cover those two hundred leagues?”
My eyes were on the horse, which stood patiently by its master, waiting for him to rise and mount.
“The horse will carry me,” I said. “Yes, and provide me money at my journey’s end.”
She would have protested, would have pleaded, but I broke away into the house, donned the best suit my uncle had left behind, stretching it somewhat in the struggle, buckled on sword and dagger, and was ready. Never had I felt so strong, so confident. At last was I to have a bout with fortune!
But money? I had little—well—and then, as I left the house, I saw again the gallant lying stark in the dust. Perhaps in his pockets were broad gold-pieces—a jewel flashed on his finger—but even as I stooped, a hand was laid on my shoulder, and I turned to find myself looking into my sister’s eyes.
“Not that, Pierre,” she said hoarsely. “For Christ’s sake, not that! The le Moynes have been thieves long enough—now let them be honest men!”
I felt my throat contract and my eyes grow wet.
“But I cannot starve,” I faltered, cursing my own weakness.
I saw the blood die from her lips.