‘What do you propose then?’ I asked.

’That you meet us at the south gate of the camp in an hour’s time dressed as you are.  You might be any gentleman travelling upon the high road.  I shall see Gerard, and we shall adopt some suitable disguise.  Bring your pistols, for it is with the most desperate man in France we have to do.  We shall have a horse at your disposal.’

The setting sun lay dull and red upon the western horizon, and the white chalk cliffs of the French coast had all flushed into pink when I found myself once more at the gate of the Boulogne Camp.  There was no sign of my companions, but a tall man, dressed in a blue coat with brass buttons like a small country farmer, was tightening the girth of a magnificent black horse, whilst a little further on a slim young ostler was waiting by the roadside, holding the bridles of two others.  It was only when I recognised one of the pair as the horse which I had ridden on my first coming to camp that I answered the smile upon the keen handsome face of the ostler, and saw the swarthy features of Savary under the broad-brimmed hat of the farmer.

‘I think that we may travel without fearing to excite suspicion,’ said he.  ’Crook that straight back of yours a little, Gerard!  And now we shall push upon our way, or we may find that we are too late.’

My life has had its share of adventures, and yet, somehow, this ride stands out above the others.

There over the waters I could dimly see the loom of the English coast, with its suggestions of dreamy villages, humming bees, and the pealing of Sunday bells.  I thought of the long, white High Street of Ashford, with its red brick houses, and the inn with the great swinging sign.  All my life had been spent in these peaceful surroundings, and now, here I was with a spirited horse between my knees, two pistols peeping out of my holsters, and a commission upon which my whole future might depend, to arrest the most redoubtable conspirator in France.  No wonder that, looking back over many dangers and many vicissitudes, it is still that evening ride over the short crisp turf of the downs which stands out most clearly in my memory.  One becomes blase to adventure, as one becomes blase to all else which the world can give, save only the simple joys of home, and to taste the full relish of such an expedition one must approach it with the hot blood of youth still throbbing in one’s veins.

Our route, when we had left the uplands of Boulogne behind us, lay along the skirts of that desolate marsh in which I had wandered, and so inland, through plains of fern and bramble, until the familiar black keep of the Castle of Grosbois rose upon the left.  Then, under the guidance of Savary, we struck to the right down a sunken road, and so over the shoulder of a hill until, on a further slope beyond, we saw the old windmill black against the evening sky.  Its upper window burned red like a spot of blood in the last rays of the setting sun.  Close by the door stood a cart full of grain sacks, with the shafts pointing downwards and the horse grazing at some distance.  As we gazed, a woman appeared upon the downs and stared round, with her hand over her eyes.