“I have met him,” replied Jacques carelessly.  “We shall pass within a mile or two of his place, if you care to travel in our company.”

“Nothing would please me more,” declared the cavalier.  “This is a stroke of good fortune on which I had not counted.  I spent the night at the inn yonder, but the dolt of a landlord might have been one of the staves of his own barrels:  he could not answer me a question!”

“Ha! my dashing friend,” I thought to myself, “old Pierre must have had his reasons for making a fool of you,” for in truth the landlord knew every one, and everything that happened, for miles around.

The stranger had drawn his horse abreast of mine, and was riding on my left.  He was a man of perhaps thirty years, richly but quietly dressed, wearing a sword, and carrying two pistols in his holsters.  His dark brown hair escaped over his forehead in short curls; his face was strong and capable; he had good features, and a rounded chin.  His eyes were blue, deep, expressive, and beautiful as a woman’s, and he had a most engaging air of candour and sincerity.  The horse he rode was a splendid animal; my father had not its equal in his stables.

“This place of Etienne’s,” said he, addressing Jacques, “is it far?”

“Within a dozen miles, monsieur.  You might easily have reached it last night by pushing on.”

“Had I been acquainted with the road!  But it was late when I arrived at the inn, and my horse had done a heavy’s day work.  You are a native of the district, monsieur?” turning to me.

“If you make the district wide enough,” I answered, with a laugh.

“You have escaped the ravages of war in these parts; you are fortunate.  One can ride here without loosening his sword.”

“Yes,” assented Jacques, “’tis a peaceful neighbourhood.”

“A pity one cannot say the same of all France,” replied the other with a deep sigh, as if saddened at the mere thought of bloodshed; “and yet it is whispered that the war is likely to break out again.  Has the rumour reached you down here?”

“We hear little news of the outside world,” I replied.

“Excuse me, monsieur,” exclaimed Jacques suddenly, “but it will suit us to quicken the pace.  We have pressing business to transact,” to which our chance acquaintance replied that he was quite willing to be guided by our wishes.

Accordingly we broke into a canter, and for the next hour or so no sound was heard save the beat of our horses’ hoofs on the hard road.  But once, when the stranger had shot a few paces to the front—­for as I have said he rode a splendid animal—­Jacques made me a swift sign that I should be cautious.

CHAPTER II

Tracked, or Not?

“That is your road, monsieur.  At the end of a mile a cross-road leads straight to Etienne Cordel’s dwelling.  You will see the house from the spot where the road branches.  You will pardon us for our hasty departure, but time presses.  If you put up again at the inn, we may have the pleasure of meeting you on our return.”