The Duke met this situation with something approaching genius.
"By no means," he said; "the ground ought to be at once reconnoitered. I will follow the deserters a little."
He was smiling, and his voice under the words laughed. But within, the man did not smile, and he did not laugh. He was oppressed by certain foreboding memories.
The host at once protested. The thing was absurd, unnecessary.
But the Duke continued to smile.
"I beg you to permit it," he said. "Here is a beautiful adventure. I would not miss it for the world."
The old man understood then, and he laughed. "Very well," he said, "will you have a horse and weapons?"
"I will take the horse," replied the Duke, "but not the weapons, thank you. In the meantime, I must dress for the part."
He went swiftly out of the library and up to his room. Here he got into his riding clothes.
At the foot of the stairway, as he came down, he found Caroline Childers waiting for him. The two walked from the château door along the turf court to the stable. The place was lighted as the Duke had first observed it on this evening, but it was now wholly deserted and silent. Caroline Childers pointed out the way and the Duke found a horse, led him out, and girted on a saddle. The horse was a big red sorrel, smooth as silk, sixteen hands high, and supple as a leopard. The Duke measured the stirrup leather on his arm, and let it out to the last buckle hole. Then he turned to the girl beside him, his voice running on that amused, mock-dramatic note.