“But he is a farrier himself!” cried Benoit.  “How let he the beast go out like this?”

“It was I forbade him to touch the horse,” replied the wily Willan.  “He did lame a good mare for me once, driving a nail into the quick.  I thought the horse would be better to walk this far and get thy more skilful handling.  There is not a man in this country, they tell me, can shoe a horse so well as thou.  Dost thou not know some secret of healing,” he continued, “by which thou canst harden the feet, so that they will be fit to shoe to-morrow?”

Benoit shook his head.  “Thy horse hath been too tenderly reared,” he said.  “A hurt goes harder with him than with our horses.  But I will do my best, sir.  I doubt not it will inconvenience thee much to wait here till he be well.  If thou couldst content thee with a beast sorry to look at, but like the wind to go, we have a nag would carry thee along, and thou couldst leave the stallion till thy return.”

“But I come not back this way,” replied Willan, strangely ready with his lies, now he had once undertaken the role of a manoeuvrer.  “I go far south, even down to the harbors of the sound.  I must bide the beast’s time now.  He hath made time for me many a day, and I do assure you, good Benoit, I love him as if he were my brother.”

“Ay,” replied the ostler; “so thought I when I saw thee bent under thy saddle-bags and leading the horse by the rein.  It’s an evil man likes not his beast.  We say in Normandy, sir,—­

  “’Evil master to good beast,
  Serve him ill at every feast!’”

“So he deserves,” replied Willan, heartily; and in his heart he added, “I hope I shall not get my deserts.”

Benoit led the poor horse away toward the stables, and Willan entered the house.  No one was to be seen.  Benoit had forgotten to tell him that no one was at home except Victorine.  It was a market-day at St. Urban’s; and Victor and Jeanne had gone for the day, and would not be back till late in the evening.

Willan roamed on from room to room,—­through the bar-room, the living-room, the kitchen; all were empty, silent.  As he retraced his steps he stopped for a second at the foot of the stairs which led from the living-room to the narrow passage-way overhead.

Victorine was in her aunt’s room, and heard the steps.  “Who is there?” she called.  Willan recognized her voice; he considered a second what he should reply.

“Benoit! is it thou?” Victorine called again impatiently; and the next minute she bounded down the stairway, crying, “Why dost thou terrify me so, thou bad Benoit, not answering me when I—­” She stopped, face to face with Willan Blaycke, and gave a cry of honest surprise.

“Ah! but is it really thou?” she said, the rosy color mounting all over her face as she recollected how she was attired.  She had been asleep all the warm afternoon, and had on only a white petticoat and a short gown of figured stuff, red and white.  Her hair was falling over her shoulders.  Willan’s heart gave a bound as he looked at her.  Before he had fairly seen her, she had turned to fly.