“It approaches closer to heaven, my son, than the lily,” answered Achon. “I wish monsieur good fortune, a fair flight, and good-night,” and then, with a short benediction, he retired.
“The wolf shows his fangs. There is danger, Gaspard.”
“Were you not reckless in saying you were bound for Orleans?”
“Not in the least. Candor is part of our game. We no longer cry, ‘Bourbon, Notre Dame!’”
Shortly after the host returned, and Marcilly rose, saying he was dog-tired and would go to his chamber. The farmer began to apologize for the accommodation he had to give us. “’Tis but a small room in the beacon tower I must ask messieurs to share. My Lord Bishop has——”
“We understand, my good fellow, and we thank you as if it were a royal palace. I’ll to bed, for it grows late and we ride with the dawn. What! Not coming, Gaspard?”
“Not yet,” I answered, and Jean, with a cheery “good-night,” and a point-blank refusal to allow the host to accompany him, went off to sleep.
We heard him humming the “Lire, lire, lironfa” as he tramped up the stairs, and then he called for Badehorn.
CHAPTER VII
MONSIEUR OF ARLES MARKS THE KING
“Mon Dieu! Messire!” said the farmer, “but monsieur there is as like to Monseigneur the Prince of Condé as one egg is to another. I remember last year, when I was factor of Beaulieu, how Monseigneur rode there once from Romorantin, to enjoy the chase in the forest of Loches.”