“If you reach Peronne after the duke arrives,” said Castleman, “I advise you not to enter the gates of the city, but to leave Burgundy at once and with all the speed you can make.  If you reach Peronne before the duke, I advise you not to tarry; but if you determine to remain, you will go to The Mitre—­a quiet inn kept by my good friend Marcus Grote.  I strongly advise you not to remain at Peronne; but if you do not see fit to follow my advice, I hope you will remain close at The Mitre until my return, which, I trust, will be within three weeks.  Danger will attend you if you do not follow my suggestion.  In any case, Sir Max, I hope you will not visit my house.  My words may seem ungracious, but they are for your good and mine.  When I return to Peronne, I shall be happy if you will honor my poor house; but until my return, untold trouble to many persons may follow your disregard of what I say.”

Castleman then departed, and we immediately arranged for the journey.

Max and I, with our squires, were waiting at the Deutsches Thor Gate when Castleman arrived with Twonette, Yolanda, and a guide.  I knocked at the door of the lodge to rouse the warder, who, of course, was asleep, and that alert guardian of a drowsy city came grumbling to the wicket.

“What in the devil’s name do you want at this time of night?” he growled.  “The gates won’t open till dawn.”

“Yes, they will,” replied Castleman.  “I have the burgomaster’s order.”

“I open the gates only on an order from the governor of the citadel,” said the warder.

“I have not that, my good friend,” responded Castleman, “but I have a hundred silver marks in my purse.”

“Let me see the burgomaster’s order,” said the worthy gatekeeper.  “I am always glad to be accommodating.”

Castleman handed over the order and the purse, and the warder pretended to read the paper in the dark.

“I’ll open the gate to accommodate you and to please the burgomaster,” he said.

The gates screeched upon their hinges, and every link in the portcullis chain groaned as if it wished to alarm the city.  When the portcullis was a-block, Max, myself, and the squires mounted our horses.  Yolanda leaned down from her saddle and, placing her arms about Castleman’s neck, kissed him.  Twonette followed her example; then our small cavalcade passed out through the gate, and we entered on our long, hard race with the Duke of Burgundy.

At dawn Yolanda called me to her side.

“Our guide will conduct us to Cinq Voies on the Somme, eight leagues this side of Peronne,” she said.  “There we shall dismiss him.  From Cinq Voies the road is straight to Peronne down the river.  Shall we put our horses to the gallop?”

To her last suggestion I objected:—­

“We have no relays.  These horses must carry us to Peronne.  In Styria we have an adage, ’If you would gallop on a long journey, walk your horse.’”