“But,” said I, “how did you get here?”
“I went back and made a long detour through the north of France. I knew you would have trouble near the end of your journey.”
“But, my horse?” I insisted. “Where did you find him?”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“The fellow who took him is lying back there somewhere in the woods.”
“And you’re not a highwayman, nor a thief, nor a scrivener after all?”
“Tut, tut!” he replied. “I told you once before that you should never judge a man by his clothes. I’m a simple servant of the greatest fighter in France—the Black Prince there. Come,” he said touching me on the arm. “I think you have a word for him.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
VICTORY ... AND HOME
I may say now that I have come to the end of my tale. I had come through as the Abbot said. But to my way of thinking it was more by blundering and good luck than by any craft or circumspection of mine.