On the following day, being alone all day, I walked out, shaking at first, but with a step growing rapidly assured. Not far from the cave I passed a clear pool, and saw my face amid the branches leaning over it. A pretty cavalier, I thought, to go a-wooing. A little further on I came to a secluded cabin, where a young woman bent over the wash-tub in the sunny doorway. I went up and saluted her courteously. The alarm died from her face, and compassion melted there instead.

“I have been long wounded, in the woods,” I said. “Give me, I pray you, the charity of a cup of milk, and lend me your scissors and a glass.”

At this the compassion ran away in laughter, and she cried merrily:

“Sit here on the stoop, monsieur, till I get them for you.”

“Plainly,” thought I, “you have not husband or brother in the chapel at Grand Pré!”

157On her return she answered as it were straight to my thought.

“My man’s in the woods!” she said, with pride. “And he’s all safe. They didn’t catch him.”

“You may well thank God for that, madame!” said I gravely, drinking the milk with relish and setting myself assiduously to my toilet. My hair of course I could do little with,—I was no barber’s apprentice. The long, straight, lustreless black locks hung down over my collar, framing lugubriously a face to scare hunger from a feast. But there was enough of it to be persuaded into covering the patches and scars.

My beard, however, proved interesting. With infinite pains I trimmed it to a courtly point, and decided it would pass muster. It was not unlike my uncle’s—and the Sieur de Briart was ever, in my eyes, an example of all that was to be admired. The success of my efforts was attested by the woman’s growing respect. She now recognized me for a gentleman, and brought me a dish of curds, and bustled with civilities till I went.

I arrived back at the cave in such good fettle that I felt another day would see me ripe for any venture. But I was tired, and slept so soundly that I knew not when my host came in.

In the morning he was there, getting ready a savory breakfast. When I proposed my enterprise for the day, he said, very wisely:

158“If you think you’re fit to-day, perhaps you may almost be so to-morrow. Wait. Don’t bungle a great matter by a little haste!”

So I curbed my chafing eagerness, and waited. He rested at home all day, and we talked much. What was said, however, was for the most part not pertinent to this record. Only one short reach of the conversation lives in my memory—but that is etched with fire.

It came in this way. One question had led to another, till at last I asked:

“Why do you so hate La Garne?” and was abashed at my boldness in asking.

He sprang up and left the cave; and left me cursing my stupidity. It was an hour ere he came back, but he was calm, and seated himself as if nothing had happened.

“I had thought,” said he, in an even............