Yet neither William nor his brothers were gloomy; there was a music in their souls, a fire in their blood, that ever kept them from melancholy; even when they spoke of Adolphus or Hoogstraaten, it was with an affectionate smile, almost gaily, as they knew these dead would have wished them to speak.
Skirting Switzerland the little company passed into Franche Comté, and one of their first halting-places was near Besançon.
The morning after they had pitched their tents William was riding slowly through the fields which were beginning to be faintly coloured with the first trembling spring flowers.
A little thicket of hawthorn concealed the high road, and beyond the meadows woods sloped over undulating valleys and gently rising hills; numberless birds were singing in the little copse, and the sky was a delicate azure veiled with milk-white clouds; it was the first day of real spring, of the awakening of the earth, of the return of the promise of life, increase, and abundance.
William had not been long alone in his musing progress through the fields when he was joined by Count Henry.
This youth, in his green vesture, his little helmet with the long, single heron's feather, with his gay carriage, his handsome face and eager expression, was as bright as the morning, as pleasant as the early spring.
He spoke to his brother with a little laugh, as if greatly amused.
"There is a party of travellers who are afraid of us! They have sent a messenger to know if they may safely pass along the road where we are encamped."
William, too, smiled.
"Give them all assurances, Henry," he answered, "that we are not robbers, even if we are outlaws."