Just then the moonlight was blackened by a big cloud, and we heard the tinkling music of a harpsichord again, but could see naught.  The sounds were plainer now, and presently resolved into the rhythmic accents of a gavotte.  But it seemed far away and very plaintive!

“Hark,” said Michael, in a hoarse voice.  “That’s the gavotte from Pagliacci.  Listen!  Don’t you remember it?”

“Pshaw!” I said roughly, for my nerves were all astir.  “It’s the Alceste music of Gluck.”

“Look, look, gentlemen!” called our host, and as the moon glowed again in the blue we saw at the edge of the forest a white figure, saw it, I swear, although it vanished at once and the music ceased.  I started to follow, but Michael and the old man seized my arms, the door was closed with a crash, and we found ourselves staring blankly into the fire, all feeling a bit shaken up.

It was Michael’s turn to speak.  “You may do what you please, but I stay here for the night, no sleep for me,” and he placed his pistols on his knee.

I looked at the landlord and I thought I saw an expression of disappointment on his face, but I was not sure.  He made some excuse about being tired and went out of the room.  We spent the rest of the night in gloomy silence.  We did not speak five words, for I saw that conversation only irritated my companion.

At dawn we walked into the sweet air and I called loudly for Arnold, who looked sleepy and out of sorts when he appeared.  The fat old man came to see us off and smilingly accepted the silver I put into his hand for our night’s reckoning.

“Au revoir, my old friend,” I said as I pressed the unnecessary spur into my horse’s flank.  “Au revoir, and look out for the ghost of the gallant Chevalier Gluck.  Tell him, with my compliments, not to play such latter-day tunes as the gavotte from Pagliacci.”

“Oh, I’ll tell him, you may be sure,” said he, quite dryly.

We saluted and dashed down the road to Amboise, where we hoped to capture our rare prize.

We had ridden about a mile when a dog attempted to cross our path.  We all but ran the poor brute down.

“Why, it’s lame!” exclaimed Arnold.

“Oh, if it were but a lame man, instead of a dog!” fervently said the groom, who was in the secret of our quest.

A horrid oath rang out on the smoky morning air.  Michael, his wicked eyes bulging fiercely, his thick neck swollen with rage, was cursing like the army in Flanders, as related by dear old Uncle Toby.

“Lame man! why, oddsbodkins, that hostler was lame!  Oh, fooled, by God! cheated, fooled, swindled and tricked by that scamp and scullion of the inn!  Oh, we’ve been nicely swindled by an old wives’ tale of a ghost!”

I stared in sheer amazement at Michael, wondering if the strangely spent night had upset his reason.  He could only splutter out between his awful curses:—­

“Gluck, the rascal, the ghost, the man we’re after!  That harpsichord—­the lying knave—­that tune—­I swear it wasn’t Gluck—­oh, the rascal has escaped again!  The ghost story—­the villain was told to scare us out of the house—­to put us off the track.  A thousand devils chase the scamp!” And Michael let his head drop on the pommel of his saddle as he fairly groaned in the bitterness of defeat.