We laid the old warrior away in the tomb of his fathers. In the evening we sat alone together—André and I—in the light of the candles. The early September day had been unusually warm and the casements were flung wide. The servants had long since gone to bed. There was scarcely a sound except our own breathing.
“I must go, Henri, to the Abbot of Chalonnes,” said my brother, breaking the silence. “There must be no more delay.”
“If you go,” I answered, “De Marsac will appear again. There will be no one left to defend the estate.”
André bit his lips but did not answer. He walked across the room and stood at the side of the great oaken table in the centre of the room. I arose, too, and stood opposite him.
“Let us toss for it, André,” said I taking a newly-minted groat from my pocket. “If it fall heads, you go, shields, I go.”
I flung the piece in the air. It fell, but fell on its edge and rolled down from the table across the room. I was about to go after it when an arrow came floating through the open window. It struck with a click and fastened its point in the hard wood. Upon the shaft, wound with a tight cord, was tied a small piece of parchment.
André drew back.
“Another enemy!” he cried. “Will there never be an end?”
“No,” said I. “You are wrong. This time it is a friend.”
With feverish fingers I drew the arrow from the wood and unrolled the parchment. With a kind of inward triumph I spread it open before my brother’s eyes. At the bottom there was drawn the figure of a leopard, very roughly to be sure, but still as plain as day. Above it in a scrawl so crude that it could hardly be deciphered were these words: