"Tristan was before us, which he is. Cannot you see that we have failed?"
"And Solignac?"
"My poor Martin, there is no more a Solignac."
"And the lands?"
"Never again will a Hellewyl have lands in Flanders."
"Jan Meert?"
"Perhaps," said I, grimly, "perhaps Jan Meert. The King has promised we shall meet, and when it suits him to do so he keeps his word."
"The King?" a spasm had poor Martin by the throat, just as in my room at Morsigny when the noosed cord was dangled in his face.
"For me," said I, "but not for you. I go to Plessis, but you—to Solignac, I think, will be safest."
His only answer was the reproach in his eyes, and a "God forgive you, Monsieur Gaspard," as he reined back again. Of course, he meant that where I went there would he go also: nor, so complete was his faith that what I did was the one and only thing that could be done, did he attempt remonstrance or persuasion.