As I watched him untie my horse, I realized suddenly all that this loss would mean to me, and a blind impulse seized me to rush upon him and run him through. I think I must have yielded to it, in spite of my passed word, had he not seemed to trust it so implicitly. For he even turned his back to me as he bent to adjust the stirrups.
He seemed in no haste—indeed, I was apparently far more excited than he—and I had time to admire the erect figure, the easy carriage, the grace of movement. Dubosq had spoken truly when he had pointed out that no one could mistake me for this finished cavalier. He sprang to the saddle with superb unconcern and paused for a look about him. He was even humming a song.
“Ah, there they come,” he said, and following his eye, I saw Dubosq and his men burst from the grove and come charging across the field. “At last they have discovered how I eluded them! Blockheads! Adieu, monsieur.”
“Till we meet again,” I corrected.
He laughed blithely.
“As you will,” he said, and gathered up the reins. “Whither are you bound?” he added, turning back to me.
“To Poitiers,” I answered.
“Then we may indeed meet again;” and waving his hand to his enemies, who by this time were very near, he set spur to flank and galloped away down the road.
A shower of bullets followed him, but he kept on apparently unhurt, and in a moment more was out of gunshot.
Dubosq came panting up, his men at his heels. He was fairly livid. He stopped for an instant to shake his fist at the cloud of dust far down the road. Then he turned to me.