We met no one to guide us, while proceeding in what we conceived, by the gradual descent of the road and rivulets, to be the direction of the Lahn, until just as the dusk of the short winter eve was closing in, we saw a party of six French soldiers of the Line, muffled up in their greatcoats, their muskets slung, their three-cornered hats pulled well over their faces, and their hands thrust in their pockets for warmth, coming leisurely towards us.
We had nothing for it now but to advance boldly and meet them, and the reader may conceive that my emotions were far from soothing on finding myself confronted by Arnaud de Pricorbin, and the same men whom I had so recently met at the ford.
CHAPTER XVI.
ARNAUD DE PRICORBIN.
When about twenty paces distant they halted, and as the evening was dusky cast about their muskets. Then Arnaud cried with a loud voice,
"Qui va là?"
Hob Elliot very unwisely replied in his native tongue, and bade him go to—it was not Heaven. On this Pricorbin slapped the butt of his musket and challenged again.
"La France," said I, in a very confident tone, and still continuing to advance; "I am the Chevalier de Boisguiller, going towards Freyenthal on special service."
"Boisguiller of the Hussars de la Reine?"
"Oui, mon camarade," said I, with a jaunty air.