But Laurence, though sufficiently headlong and reckless, had not been born a Scot for naught.

“Wait till there is necessity,” he replied cautiously, “and the angels shall not be lacking.  Till then they are quite safe with me.  For security I carry them in a secret place ill to be gotten at hastily.”

Gilles de Sille turned away with some movement of impatience, yet without saying another word upon the subject.

“To the stables,” he said; then turning to the concierge he added, “I suppose we can have horses to ride after my lord?”

“So far as I am concerned,” growled Labord, “you can have all the horses you want—­and break your necks off each one of them if you will.  It will save some good hemp and hangman’s hire.  Such devil’s dogs as you two be bear your dooms ready written on your faces.”

And this saying nettled our Laurence, who prided himself no little on an allure blonde and gallant.

But Gilles de Sille cared no whit for the servitor’s sneers, so long as they got horses between their knees and escaped out of Paris that night.  In an hour they were ready to start, and Laurence had expended one of his gold angels on the provend for the journey, which his companion and he stored in their saddle-bags.

And in this manner, like an idle lad who for mischief puts body and soul in peril, went forth Laurence MacKim to take up service with the redoubtable Messire Gilles de Laval, Sieur de Retz, High Chamberlain of Charles the Seventh, Marshal of France, and lately companion-in-arms of the martyred Maid of Orleans.

Now, before he went forth from the street of the Ursulines, he had laid a sealed letter on the bed of his brother, which ran thus:  “Ha, Sir Sholto MacKim, while you stand about in the rain and shiver under your cloak, I am off to find out the mystery.  When I have done all without assistance from the wise Sir Sholto, I will return.  But not before.  Fare your knightship well.”

Laurence and Gilles de Sille rode out of Paris by the Versailles road, and the latter insisted on silence till they had passed the forest of St. Cyr, which was at that time exceedingly dangerous for horsemen not travelling in large companies.  Once they were fairly on the road to Chartres, however, and clear of the valley of the Seine and its tangled boscage of trees, Gilles relaxed sufficiently to break a bottle of wine to the success of their journey and to the new service and duty upon which Laurence was to enter at the end of it.

Having proposed this toast, he handed the bumper first to Laurence, who, barely tasting the excellent Poitevin vintage, handed the leathern bottle back to de Sille.  That sallow youth immediately, without giving his companion a second chance, proceeded to quaff the entire contents of the pigskin.

Then as the stiff brew penetrated downwards, it was not long before the favourite of the marshal began to wax full of vanity and swelling words.