Taking the cue from Jacques, who evidently did not intend holding a prolonged conversation, I said:  “Adieu, monsieur, and a pleasant ending to your journey.  You cannot mistake the way, now,” and directly he had thanked us for our assistance we rode on.

“Rather an abrupt departure, Jacques,” I remarked presently, feeling somewhat puzzled.

“Better that, monsieur, than wait to be asked inconvenient questions.  Did you notice that slash across his doublet?  He has been pretty close to a naked sword, and not long ago either!  What does he want with Etienne Cordel?  He looks more fitted for the camp than the law courts.”

“Monsieur Cordel no doubt transacts his private business for him.”

“No doubt,” said Jacques, with a shrug of his shoulders.  “But I did not like his appearance, and if we could spare the time I would ride back to discover what made Pierre suddenly dumb.  I warrant he misliked his questioner; but if the stranger is seeking information, he can obtain all he wants from Cordel.”

“You are no friend to the advocate, Jacques!”

“He is a spy, monsieur, and a maker of mischief.  One of these days men will learn his true character.”

“I have no liking for Cordel,” I said, “but still all this has nothing to do with our errand.”

“Perhaps not, monsieur; we will hope not,” replied my companion, “but all the same, I wish we had started an hour earlier.”

Honestly I felt rather inclined to laugh at Jacques’ vague fears, for the stranger’s pleasant speech and affable manner had impressed me, and I could not think of him in any other light than that of a courteous and gallant gentleman.  In spite of wise saws, one is often tempted to believe that occasionally fine feathers make fine birds.

We rode on steadily, stopping for an hour or two during the hottest part of the day, and putting up late at night at a dilapidated inn in a half-deserted village.  The landlord, a bent, feeble, old man, had gone to bed, but he set about preparing some supper, while, since there was no ostler, we fed and groomed the animals ourselves.

“We must start at daybreak,” said Jacques, when we had finished our meal; “that will give us four hours’ sleep.”

“Fourteen would suit me better!” I laughed, as we followed our host to the guest-chamber, and, indeed, I was so thoroughly tired that my head scarcely touched the pillow before I was sound asleep.

It was still dark when Jacques roused me, and by dawn we were once more on the road.  On this second day’s journey the ravages of the late war were plainly apparent, and the sights made one’s heart ache.  The fields lay waste and untilled; the cattle, few in number, were mere bundles of skin and bone; the villages were half-emptied of their inhabitants, while those who remained resembled skeletons rather than human beings.

“And all this,” exclaimed my companion bitterly, “is the work of the Italian woman and her friends.  It is time that Frenchmen took their country into their own hands again, and out of the clutches of these foreign harpies!”