“I will come to take a hand with you any time, madame,” M. Etienne assured her.  “I like the way you play.”

She broke into shrill, delighted laughter.

“I’ll warrant you do!  And I don’t mean to do the thing by halves.  No; I shall save you, hide and hair.  Be so kind, my lad, as to lift the lantern from the hook.”

I did as she bade me, and we followed her down the passage like spaniels.  She was so entirely equal to the situation that we made no protests and asked no questions.  At the end of the hall she paused, opening neither the door on the right nor the door on the left, but, passing her hand up one of the panels of the wainscot, suddenly she flung it wide.

“You are not so small as I,” she chuckled, “yet I think you can make shift to get through.  You, monsieur lantern-bearer, go first.”

I doubled myself up and scrambled through.  The old lady, gathering her petticoats daintily, followed me without difficulty, but M. Etienne was put to some trouble to bow his tall head low enough.  We stood at the top of a flight of stone steps descending into blackness.  The old lady unhesitatingly tripped down before us.

At the foot of the stairs was a vaulted stone passageway, slippery with lichen, the dampness hanging in beads on the wall.  Turning two corners, we brought up at a narrow, nail-studded door.

“Here I bid you farewell,” quoth the little old lady.  “You have only to walk on till you get to the end.  At the steps, pull the rope once and wait.  When he opens to you, say, ‘For the Cause,’ and draw a crown with your finger in the air.”

“Madame,” M. Etienne cried, “I hope the day may come when I shall make you suitable acknowledgements.  My name—­”

“I prefer not to know it,” she interrupted, glancing up at him.  “I will call you M. Yeux-gris; that is enough.  As for acknowledgments—­pooh!  I am overpaid in the sport it has been.”

“But, madame, when monsieur your son discovers—­”

“Mon dieu!  I am not afraid of my son or of any other woman’s son!” she cried, with cackling laughter.  And I warrant she was not.

“Madame,” M. Etienne said, “I trust we shall meet again when I shall have time to tell you what I think of you.”  He dropped on his knees before her, kissing both her hands.

“Yes, yes, of course you are grateful,” she said, somewhat bored apparently by his demonstration.  “Naturally one does not like to die at your age.  I wish you a pleasant journey, M. Yeux-gris, and you too, you fresh-faced boy.  Give me back my lantern and fare you well.”

“You will let us see you safe back in your hall.”

“I will do nothing of the sort!  I am not so decrepit, thank you, that I cannot get up my own stairs.  No, no; no more gallantries, but get on your way!  Begone with you!  I must be back in my chamber working my altar-cloth when my daughter-in-law comes home.”

Crowing her elfin laugh, she pulled the door open and fairly hustled us through.