CHAPTER I

THE MAN BY THE ROADSIDE

A solemn twilight, heavy and oppressive, was closing a dull, slumberous day.  It was late in the year for such weather.  Not a breath stirred in the trees by the roadside, not a movement in hedge or ditch; some plague might have swept across the land, leaving it stricken and desolate, even the cottages here and there showed no lights and appeared to be deserted.  The road ran straight between ill-conditioned and neglected fields, and for an hour or more no traveler had passed this way, yet it was a high road, and at a few miles distance was Paris.  Yonder toward the northeast lay the city, the twilight heavy over it too, but it was not silent.  The throb of human passion and anger beat in it with quick, hammering strokes, and men and women, looking into one another’s eyes, either laughed while they sang and danced madly, or shrank away, afraid of being seen, fearing to ask questions.

The twilight had grown deeper, and the horizon was narrowing quickly with the coming of night, when the sound of horses’ hoofs broke the silence and two riders came rapidly round a bend into the long stretch of straight road, traveling in the direction of Paris.  They rode side by side as comrades and as men with a purpose, a definite destination which must be reached at all hazards, yet at a casual glance it would appear that they could have little in common.  One was an elderly man with grizzled hair, face deeply lined, sharp eyes which were screwed up and half closed as if he were constantly trying to focus things at a distance.  He was tall, chiefly accounted for by his length of leg, and as thin as a healthy man well could be.  His horsemanship had no easy grace about it, and a casual observer might have thought that he was unused to the saddle.  There would have been a similar opinion about anything this man did; he never seemed to be intended for the work he was doing, yet it was always well done.  He was a silent man, too, and his thoughts were seldom expressed in his face.

His companion was a young man, twenty-five or twenty-six, although his face might suggest that he was somewhat older.  His was a strong face, cleanly cut, intelligent, purposeful, yet there was also a certain reserve, as though he had secrets in his keeping which no man might know.  Like his comrade, there was little that escaped his keen observation, but at times there was a far-off look in his eyes, as though the present had less interest for him than the future.  He sat his horse as one born to the saddle; his hands were firm, his whole frame full of physical force, energy, and endurance—­a man who would act promptly and with decision, probably a good man to have as a friend, most certainly an awkward one to have as an enemy.

“We delayed too long at our last halt, Seth.  I doubt whether we shall see Paris to-night,” he said presently, but made no effort to check the pace of his horse.