“I’ve been doubting that for an hour past, Master Richard,” was the answer.

The grizzled man was Seth, or sometimes Mr. Seth, to all who knew him.  So seldom had he heard himself called Seth Dingwall that he had almost forgotten the name.  Born in Louisiana, he believed he had French blood in him, and spoke the language easily.  He had gone with his mistress to Virginia when she married Colonel Barrington, and to him Broadmead was home, and he had no relation in the wide world.

“Is it so necessary to reach the city to-night?” he asked after a pause.

“I had planned to do so.”

The answer was characteristic of the man.  As a boy, when he had made up his mind to do a thing, he did it, even though well-merited punishment might follow, and the boy was father to the man.  Save in years and experience, this was the same Richard Barrington who had dreamed as he watched sunlit sails disappear in the haze over Chesapeake Bay.

“I was thinking of the horses,” said Seth.  “I reckon that we have a long way to travel yet.”

“We may get others presently,” Barrington answered, and then, after a moment’s pause, he went on:  “We have seen some strange sights since we landed—­ruined homes, small and great, burned and desolated by the peasants; and in the last few hours we have heard queer tales.  I do not know how matters stand, but it looks as if we might be useful in Paris.  That is why we must push on.”

“Master Richard,” he said slowly.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever considered how useless a man may be?”

“Ay, often, and known such men.”

“You do not catch my meaning.  I am talking of a man who is full of courage and determination, yet just because he is only one is powerless.  A lion might be killed by rats if there were enough rats.”

“True, Seth, but there would be fewer rats by the time the lion was dead, and a less number for the next lion to struggle with.”

“A good answer,” said Seth, “and I’m not saying it isn’t a right one, but I’m thinking of that first lion which may be slain.”

A smile, full of tenderness, came into Barrington’s face which, in the gathering darkness, his companion could hardly have seen had he turned to look at him, which he did not do.

“I know, Seth, I know, but I am not one man alone.  I have you.  It seems to me that I have always had you, and Heaven knows I should have had far less heart for this journey had you not come with me.  In the old days you have been nurse and physician to me.  I should have drowned in the pond beyond the orchard had you not been at hand to pull me out; I should have broken my skull when the branch of that tree broke had you not caught me; and I warrant there’s a scar on your leg somewhere to show that the bull’s horn struck you as you whisked me into a place of safety.”

“There was something before all those adventures, Master Richard.”