"I thought you were afoot?" said Jack, glancing at the older man's spurs.
"I'm going to hunt up a horse; I'm tired of this eternal tramping," replied Grahame. "Hello, is this package for me?"
"Yes, there's a cold chicken and some things, and a flask to keep you until you find your Hohenzollern Regiment again."
Grahame rose and held out his hand. "Good-by. You've been very kind, Marche. Will you say, for me, all that should be said to Madame de Morteyn? Good-by once more, my dear fellow. Don't forget me—I shall never forget you!"
"Wait," said Jack; "you are going off without a safe-conduct."
"Don't need it; there's not a French soldier in Morteyn."
"Gone?" stammered Jack—"the Emperor, General Frossard, the army—"
"Every mother's son of them, and I must hurry—"
Their hands met again in a cordial grasp, then Grahame slipped noiselessly into the hallway, and Jack turned to finish dressing by the light of his clustered candles.
As he stood before the quaintly wrought mirror, fussing with studs and buttons, he thought with a shudder of the scene of the night before, the marquis and his murderous frenzy, the impassive Emperor, the frantic man hurled to the polished floor, stunned, white-cheeked, with hands slowly relaxing and fingers uncurling from the glittering revolver.