But for two happenings by the way Stephen La Mothe's ride over the route taken twenty-four hours earlier by Commines was without event. Of these happenings one was bitter and one was sweet, and in mercy the bitter came first, leaving the sweet to comfort the end of the journey.

Once fully clear of Amboise the leader of the troop halted, and by a prearranged plan his followers gathered round them, hemming them into a circle as they had hemmed Beaufoy earlier in the day.

"Monsieur La Mothe," he said civilly, but speaking with the air of a man who had a fixed purpose, "there is a certain signet which I must demand. We who come from Valmy always say must and demand," he added, with a touch of grim humour, which was lost on La Mothe, but which Paul Beaufoy would have appreciated.

"Your instructions said nothing about a signet."

"I must have it, nevertheless. You can see for yourself that the order was written in haste, and how should I know the ring exists if the King had not told me? To be frank with you, these men do not go with us all the way to Valmy, and where would I be if, when we arrived, you played your signet against my scrap of paper?"

"But you have my parole."

"Valmy's parole!" he said scornfully. "I mean no offence, but I can afford no risks. Come, Monsieur La Mothe, do not put me and yourself to the indignity of a search."

At the contempt in the scornful voice La Mothe started, flushing hotly in the darkness. But the memory of the deadly deceit practised on his own faith was too recent, and he controlled himself. How could he blame a stranger for judging the servant by the master?

"The ring came from the King and should go back to the King. On your honour, is this part of your duty?"

"My most solemn duty, as God is above us; without the signet I cannot fulfil all that has been laid upon me"—which was true in a sense. The order stolen from Beaufoy might gain him entrance to Valmy, but without the signet he could not count on forcing a way to Louis himself.

"On compulsion, then," said La Mothe, giving up the signet, and thenceforward they rode in silence, not pressing their horses unduly; but it vexed him to think that Louis would not trust him to return the ring.

If Stephen La Mothe was sick at heart, who could blame him or charge it to the discredit of his courage? The rough lesson had been roughly taught that it is better to tramp the road of life afoot and one's own master than to ride a-horseback under compulsion. He had learned, too, that on the tree of knowledge of the ways of men are many fruits which pucker the mouth, as well as those which gladden the spirit. As to the ways of women, that is an altogether different book—a serial, let us say, but in how many numbers?

Of these ways La Mothe learned one before the sun of a new day had risen. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the auberge where Paul Beaufoy had purchased breakfast at a cost greater than an empty purse, the troopers were dismissed after a brief conference, from which La Mothe was excluded, and the two rode on alone. Each was preoccupied and neither spoke. Knowing the relationship which existed between Valmy and Amboise there seemed to La Mothe nothing strange in the procedure followed both at the ChÂteau and afterwards. If the King suspected he had joined the camp of the Dauphin, then arrest might have been resisted; but once upon the road, and his parole passed, there was no further need for force. The King who kept no faith was shrewd to know when he could trust the faith of others, and the troopers doubtless were required elsewhere. The truth was they followed at a distance, in order to cover and aid Molembrais' flight in the desperate possibility of his escape from Valmy.

Unconsciously following the precedent set by Commines, they drew rein while it was yet dark. Daylight, both knew, would show Valmy in the distance. But as they crawled at a foot's pace in the yet darker shadow of a dense pine-wood edging the highway, the east a sullen grey ribbed by a narrow cloud poised upon the horizon like an inverted giant monolith, there sounded behind them the remote pad, pad of rapid hoofs muffled by dust. It was the very dead hour of night, when even nature is steeped in the quiet of a child's sleep, and the rhythmic beat broke the stillness like the throbbing of a heart.

"This way and be silent."

La Mothe felt rather than saw his bridle caught, wrenching his horse backward into a gloom so heavy that those behind them would have passed them by but that Grey Roland, chafing at the pressure on the bit, tossed his head and set the cheek-chains jangling. Instantly the foremost rider checked, and a voice called out of the darkness, "Who is there? Stephen! Stephen!" It was Ursula de Vesc. With a touch of the spur La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, dragging the rein from the hand which held it.

"Ursula! You! Why are you here? Who is with you?"

"Where else should I be?" she answered between laughter and a sob.
"Did you think I could wait, breaking my heart alone in Amboise?
Besides, there is no danger. Father John is with me, and now we shall
be together to the end."

"But the Dauphin?"

"Your orders are cancelled, don't you remember? There is no longer any fear for the Dauphin. And if there was," she added half defiantly, "I would be here all the same."

From the shadow of the pines La Mothe's captor rode slowly forward.
"For what purpose, mademoiselle?"

"To tell the King what I know Monsieur La Mothe will never tell him—that he has twice saved the Dauphin's life against that would-be murderer, Molembrais. And when all France hears the story, as all France shall, not even the King will dare to lay a finger on the most loyal gentleman from Artois to Navarre. My one fear was I might be too late, and all night have ridden in terror lest you should reach Valmy before me."

"But there is no entering Valmy in the dark."

"Monsieur La Mothe's signet——"

"La Mothe, you never told me that."

"Why should I?" replied La Mothe. "I owed you no information. You took your instructions from the King. But, Ursula, you cannot, must not, dare not, go to Valmy. Remember Saxe. The risk would be madness, the danger——"

"Where you go I go," she answered steadily. "Dear, do not try to dissuade me, it would be no use. Let us not fret ourselves in the little time we have. And is the danger less for you than for me?"

"Do you mean," demanded Molembrais, "that the signet will give admission to the King at any hour, day or night?"

"At any hour, yes."

"And we are ready to go," said the girl, ranging her horse by the side of Grey Roland, so that La Mothe was within touch of her hand.

"Neither you nor the priest—La Mothe and La Mothe only," he answered, his voice roughening into passion for the first time. "Come, sir, I hold your parole."

"But this does not touch Monsieur La Mothe's parole."

"Mademoiselle, you read my instructions; they have nothing to do with you."

"Monsieur, I never thought myself a person of any importance, but I believe the King will thank you."

"Flatly, I decline to take you."

"Flatly, I shall go whether you decline or not."

"Father!" and in his angry perplexity Molembrais turned, appealing to the priest.

"She is right," answered the Franciscan, speaking for the first time, "and when one is right there is no turning back, no matter what the end may be. Yes," he went on, replying now to a sudden gesture dimly seen in the gloom, "I know you are armed and we are not, but, short of killing me, you can no more turn me back from the right than you can turn back the finger of God from lifting the sun yonder."

He faced the east as he spoke, and at the sweep of his arm all faced with him. Dawn trembled in birth below the hard rim of the world. The leaden sullenness was colder, clearer, the upper sky a threat of storm, but the impending shaft of cloud had caught the first of the coming glory and blazed a splendid crimson. It was as if indeed the Divine had clothed itself in visibility, that the troubled in spirit might take comfort, and faith go forward strengthened in the right, unafraid.

Crossing his breast mechanically with his finger-tips the monk sat in silence, like one tranced. "'Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and the King of Glory shall come in,'" he murmured. Then he roused, straightening himself in the saddle. "Let us ride on. Have no fear, mademoiselle. By the Christ of Love whom I serve you shall taste no harm."

"They will never let you pass the outer guard."

"A way will open; ride on."

"Well ride, then!" And ride they did, furiously. The fewer sleepless eyes in Valmy the better for his purpose; the surer, too, his chance of escape in the confusion which must follow the King's death. Once only Molembrais looked round.

"Remember your parole. Keep near me, La Mothe!" Then, crouching low, he drove his spurs home and dashed forward at a reckless gallop.

But if he thought to shake off Ursula de Vesc and the Franciscan, he was mistaken. Thanks to the good offices of Cartier, the innkeeper, they had changed horses at ChÂteau-Renaud, and now their freshness more than balanced any lesser skill in horsemanship. Even Father John, the weakest rider of the four, never flinched or fell behind, but, stiff with pain and every joint a living fire from the unaccustomed fatigue, kept his place, second in the troop. Stephen and Ursula came last, side by side. Crossing the Loire the pace slackened, and for the first time speech was possible.

"Stephen, you are not vexed? I could not wait in Amboise eating my heart out, knowing nothing."

"How could love vex me?" he answered as they clasped hands across the current. "But, beloved, I am in terror for you. The King——"

"Hush! do not talk of the King. Father John is right, God's over all, and I have no fear." The clasp tightened in a message neither could speak. But it was only for a moment; already their horses were scrambling up the further bank, forcing them apart.

"God guard you, Ursula."

"Stephen, beloved, is it good-bye?" For answer he shook his head, but not in denial; none knew for certain how suddenly good-byes might be said in Valmy.

Once across the river Molembrais beckoned to La Mothe to close up with him.

"We must keep together now. If I have done my part courteously, help me in return by silence. Remember, no one in Valmy knows of the arrest. Mademoiselle de Vesc and the monk must fend for themselves."

La Mothe nodded agreement. The request was natural. For his part he had no desire to be a target for curious questions. He had no explanation to give, nor was he even certain whether, as Villon said, he knew too much, or was accused of disloyalty in joining the Dauphin's party. As to Ursula, it seemed safer for her to be disassociated from him in either case; safer, too, that the King should see him first and alone; the heat of his wrath might exhaust itself. So the two rode on ahead, Ursula and Father John following more leisurely. The dawn was as yet little more than a haze of yellow mist.