"Why?" protested Horace, hanging back.
"She must know. She is the wise woman!" the other spluttered in his excitement. "She sees unseen things. She hears the voices of the future! Come! Come quickly!"
He half-led, half-dragged the boy on.
The hunchback's excitement was infectious. Besides, Horace remembered that he had a message to give.
The master's wife was standing a step or two from the door of her house. The window was open and the lamplight, shining through, fell on her spare figure. Few people were asleep in Beaufays that first night that red-eyed War stalked abroad.
"I hear footsteps that bear a message," she said, peering into the darkness as they approached.
"It is I, Madame, Horace Monroe," the boy answered.
"You carry news of disaster and triumph on your shoulders," she declaimed, "disaster that has been, triumph that is to come."
"I—I don't know, Madame," the boy replied, hesitatingly, surprised and a little afraid of this oracular form of address.