The roads part outside Plombières, one going north, one south, one west. Behind, to the east, is the way across the Vosges.
And here, by the spring which marks their divergence, Andrew Vause and Valentin Debrasques clasped hands one bright winter morning, a few days later, and bade farewell to each other for a time.
"God send you health and fair recovery," the former said, as he stood by his horse's side; "make, too, my service to your mother. When next I pass through Paris----"
"Our house will be yours. Your home. Remember," and he glanced up at the other with a wistful look in his eyes, "we are sworn friends: sworn long ago. You will not let aught that has passed break that?"
"Fear not," Andrew replied. "Even though France and England fly at each other's throats in days to come--which Heaven forefend!--we must remember that."
"And," went on Valentin, "you said a night or so ago that you had failed in--in--what brought you here. Spoke with regret, it seemed, of that failure. Andrew," and now he laid his hand pleadingly on the other's arm, "you do not regret? Is the end not best as it is? He is in his grave--not sent there by your hand--does it not suffice?"
"It must suffice," Andrew replied. "And--Valentin, I am not so vengeful as to wish now that it could have been otherwise. Perhaps it is better so. Far better to think in after years, if I live to be old, that he died without my aid."
"I thank God that you can say so."
He gave his orders to his men who were to accompany him; slowly the dragoons fell in and set out upon their march; once more they clasped hands.
"Farewell, dear friend," he said.