“But they might take your horse—”
“Let them try.”
“And insult you—”
“I should talk to them so that they would be enchanted. For, look you, like yourself, I believe the vulgar have souls.”
It was eight o’clock at night before they parted at a turning in the forest, Michelle going with François to the château, and Roger to the castle.
“Good-bye, Mr. Egremont,” she said, catching his hand in her little one, and holding it fast, “I shall not forget this ride.”
“Nor shall I, as long as I live,” replied Roger, in a tone that spoke all he felt, and François coming up then, they cried out, “Adieu,” gayly, and Merrylegs’s hoofs were soon clattering over the stony streets of St. Germains.
Roger threw his bridle to the groom waiting at the entrance to the castle, and swaggered into the guard-room. He felt exhilarated, excited. Three hours of the company of Mademoiselle d’Orantia had acted upon him like wine. Berwick was standing by the fireplace, in which the oak logs blazed redly,—the gentlemen pensioners of King James would do much for him, but they would not economize in fuel.
“What good thing has befallen you, Mr. Roger Egremont?” called out Berwick, as Roger advanced to the fireplace, holding the bare blade of his sword in his hand, and nervously bending it until the point and hilt were close together.
“The greatest good in the world,—the free, unrestrained company of the charmingest woman on earth for three whole hours;” and then, seeing laughter and misunderstanding in the faces of those about him, he turned a scowling front toward them, and said in a loud voice,—