He looked after us with foreboding eyes as we went out of the great gate, alone, with not so much as a linkboy.  But if his heart was heavy, our hearts were light.  We paced along as merrily as though to a feast.  M. Etienne hung his lute over his neck and strummed it; and whenever we passed under a window whence leaned a pretty head, he sang snatches of love-songs.  We were alone in the dark streets of a hostile city, bound for the house of a mighty foe; and one of us was wounded and one a tyro.  Yet we laughed as we went; for there was Lucas languishing in prison, and here were we, free as air, steering our course for mademoiselle’s window.  One of us was in love, and the other wore a sword for the first time, and all the power of Mayenne daunted us not.

We came at length within bow-shot of the Hotel de Lorraine, where M. Etienne was willing to abate somewhat his swagger.  We left the Rue St. Antoine, creeping around behind the house through a narrow and twisting alley—­it was pitch-black, but he knew the way well—­into a little street dim-lighted from the windows of the houses upon it.  It was only a few rods long, running from the open square in front of the hotel to the network of unpaved alleys behind.  On the farther side stood a row of high-gabled houses, their doors opening directly on the pavement; on this side was but one big pile, the Hotel de Lorraine.  The wall was broken by few windows, most of them dark; this was not the gay side of the house.  The overhanging turret on the low second story, under which M. Etienne halted, was as dark as the rest, nor, though the casement was open wide, could we tell whether any one was in the room.  We could hear nothing but the breeze crackling in the silken curtains.

“Take your station at the corner there,” he bade, “and shout if they seem to be coming for us.  But I think we shall not be molested.  My fingers are so stiff they will hardly recognize my hand on the strings.”

I went to my post, and he began singing, scarce loud enough for any but his lady above to mark him: 

Fairest blossom ever grew
Once she loosened from her breast. 
This I say, her eyes are blue.

From her breast the rose she drew,
Dole for me, her servant blest,
Fairest blossom ever grew._

The music paused, and I turned from my watch of the shadowy figures crossing the square, in instant alarm lest something was wrong.  But whatever startled him ceased, for in a moment he went on again, and as he sang his voice rang fuller: 

Of my love the guerdon true,
’Tis my bosom’s only guest. 
This I say, her eyes are blue.

Still to me ’tis bright of hue
As when first my kisses prest
Fairest blossom ever grew.

Sweeter than when gathered new
’Twas the sign her love confest. 
This I say, her eyes are blue._

He stopped again and stood gazing up into the window, but whether he saw something or heard something I could not tell.  Apparently he was not sure himself, for presently, a little tremulous, he added the four verses: