And so he was; but not even Victorine, with all her confidence in the strength of the hold she had so suddenly acquired on him, could have imagined how soon and with what purpose he would return.  On the evening of the sixth day, just at sunset, he appeared, walking with his saddle-bags on his shoulders and leading his horse.  The beast limped badly, and had evidently got a sore hurt.  Old Benoit was standing in the arched entrance of the courtyard as they approached.

“Marry, but that beast is in a bad way!” he exclaimed, and went to meet them.  Benoit loved a horse; and Willan Blaycke’s black stallion was a horse to which any man’s heart might well go out, so knowing, docile, proud, and swift was the creature, and withal most beautifully made.  The poor thing went haltingly enough now, and every few minutes stopped and looked around piteously into his master’s face.

“And the man doth look as distressed as the beast,” thought Benoit, as he drew near; “it is a good man that so loves an animal.”  And Benoit warmed toward Willan as he saw his anxious face.

If Benoit had only known!  No wonder Willan’s face was sorrow-stricken!  It was he himself that had purposely lamed the stallion, that he might have plain and reasonable excuse for staying at the Golden Pear some days.  He had not meant to hurt the poor creature so much, and his conscience pricked him horribly at every step the horse took.  He patted him on his neck, spoke kindly to him, and did all in his power to atone for his cruelty.  That all was very little, however, for each step was torture to the beast; his fore feet were nearly bleeding.  This was what Willan had done:  the day before he had taken off two of the horse’s shoes, and then galloped fast over miles of rough and stony road.  The horse had borne himself gallantly, and shown no fatigue till nightfall, when he suddenly went lame, and had grown worse in the night, so that Willan had come very near having to lie by at an inn some leagues to the north, where he had no mind to stay.  A heavy price he was paying for the delight of looking on Victorine’s face, he began to think, as he toiled along on foot, mile after mile, the saddle-bags on his shoulders, and the hot sun beating down on his head; but reach the Golden Pear that day he would, and he did,—­almost as footsore as the stallion.  Neither master nor beast was wonted to rough ways.

“My horse is sadly lame,” Willan said to Benoit as he came up.  “He cast two shoes yesterday, and I was forced to ride on, spite of it, for there was no blacksmith on the road I came.  I fear me thou canst not shoe him to-night, his feet have grown so sore!”

“No, nor to-morrow nor the day after,” cried Benoit, taking up the inflamed feet and looking at them closely.  “It was a sin, sir, to ride such a creature unshod; he is a noble steed.”

“Nay, I have not ridden a step to-day,” answered Willan, “and I am wellnigh as sore as he.  We have come all the way from the north boundary,—­a matter of some six leagues, I think,—­from the inn of Jean Gauvois.”