A hard expression covered his countenance.
“Before the snow flies I shall be toasting my shins before the fire-place in your house,” my captor boasted. “De Marsac has promised that I shall be the bailiff when he is master there.”
A long breath like a sob broke from my throat. It was plain to me now for the first time why I was sent on this errand down the valley of the Loire.
“Have you ever heard of a youth called ‘Charles of Gramont’?” I demanded.
“Of course,” came the answer, “he’s the son of the old Count. He was a prisoner of ours for a while—but escaped——”
“—escaped?” The word jumped from my mouth.
“Yes,” was the reply. “Gone. Like smoke in the air.”
“He has joined the Black Prince!” I exclaimed. “I am glad of that. He will let him know of the danger he is in.”
My captor threw back his head and uttered a low grunt that was meant for a laugh.
“A fly couldn’t get out of this valley—or into it—unless we knew it,” he said. “That lad has either starved to death or is hiding somewhere in the woods.”