“Plainly,” thought I, “you have not husband or brother in the chapel at Grand Pré!”
On her return she answered as it were straight to my thought.
“My man’s in the woods!” she said, with pride. “And he’s all safe. They didn’t catch him.”
“You may well thank God for that, madame!” said I gravely, drinking the milk with relish and setting myself assiduously to my toilet. My hair of course I could do little with,—I was no barber’s apprentice. The long, straight, lustreless black locks hung down over my collar, framing lugubriously a face to scare hunger from a feast. But there was enough of it to be persuaded into covering the patches and scars.
My beard, however, proved interesting. With infinite pains I trimmed it to a courtly point, and decided it would pass muster. It was not unlike my uncle’s—and the Sieur de Briart was ever, in my eyes, an example of all that was to be admired. The success of my efforts was attested by the woman’s growing respect. She now recognized me for a gentleman, and brought me a dish of curds, and bustled with civilities till I went.
I arrived back at the cave in such good fettle that I felt another day would see me ripe for any venture. But I was tired, and slept so soundly that I knew not when my host came in.
In the morning he was there, getting ready a savory breakfast. When I proposed my enterprise for the day, he said, very wisely:
“If you think you’re fit to-day, perhaps you may almost be so to-morrow. Wait. Don’t bungle a great matter by a little haste!”
So I curbed my chafing eagerness, and waited. He rested at home all day, and we talked much. What was said, however, was for the most part not pertinent to this record. Only one short reach of the conversation lives in my memory—but that is etched with fire.
It came in this way. One question had led to another, till at last I asked: