"Pardon, Monsieur," Gil muttered. He had been sleeping in his saddle.
He scrambled down. The mare he rode, a valuable one, had a knack of breaking her hind shoe; after which she never failed to lame herself at the first opportunity. Buton had tried every method of shoeing, but without success.
I sprang to the ground while he lifted the foot. My ear had not deceived me; the shoe was broken. Gil tried to remove the jagged fragment left on the hoof, but the mare was restive, and he had to desist.
"She cannot go to Saux in that state," I said angrily.
The men were silent for a moment, peering at the mare. Then Gil spoke.
"The St. Alais forge is not three hundred yards down the lane, Monsieur," he said. "And the turn is yonder. We could knock up Petit Jean, and get him to bring his pincers here. Only----"
"Only what?" I said peevishly.
"I quarrelled with him at Cahors Fair, Monsieur," Gil answered sheepishly; "and he might not come for us."
"Very well," I said gruffly, "I will go. And do you stay here, and keep the mare quiet."
André held the stirrup for me to mount. The smithy, the first hovel in the village, was a quarter of a mile away, and, in reason, I should have ridden to it. But, in my irritation, I was ready to do anything they did not propose, and, roughly rejecting his help, I started on foot. Fifty paces brought me to the branch road that led to St. Alais, and, making out the turning with a little difficulty, I plunged into it; losing, in a moment, the cheerful sound of jingling bits and the murmur of the men's voices.