peasants, used to the religious custom which expects all those who pass the house of death to enter and say a prayer for the soul of the dying and a blessing on the body, were not surprised at the presence of a stranger, and paid no heed to his departure. The latter, on leaving the cottage, met another peasant, younger and smaller than himself, who seemed to be his brother; this one was riding a horse saddled and bridled in peasant fashion.
"Well, Rameau-d'or," said the younger, "what is it?"
"This," replied the other: "there is no place for us in that house. A guest is there whose presence fills it."
"Who is he?"
"Death."
"Who is dead?"
"He whose hospitality we came to ask. I would suggest to you to make a shield of his death and stay here; but I heard some one say that Tinguy died of typhoid fever, and though doctors deny the contagion, I cannot consent to expose you to it."
"You are not afraid that you were seen and recognized?"
"No, impossible. There were eight or ten persons, men and women, praying round the bed. I went in and knelt down and prayed with them. That is what all Breton and Vendéan peasants do in such cases."
"Well, what can we do now?" asked the younger of the two.
"I have already told you. We had to decide between the château of my former comrade or the cottage of the poor fellow who was to have been our guide, – between luxury and a princely house with poor security, and a narrow cottage, bad beds, buckwheat bread, and absolute safety. God himself has decided the matter. We have no choice; we must take the insecure comfort."
"But you think the château is not safe?"
"The château belongs to a friend of my childhood, whose father was made a baron by the Restoration. The father is dead, and the widow and son are now living in the château. If the son were alone, I should have no anxiety. He is rather weak, but his heart is sound. It is his mother I fear; she is selfish and ambitious, and I could not trust her."
"Oh, pooh! just for one night! You are not adventurous, Rameau-d'or."
"Yes I am, on my own account; but I am answerable to France, or at any rate, to my party for the life of Ma-"
"For Petit-Pierre. Ah, Rameau-d'or, that is the tenth forfeit you owe me since we started."
"It shall be the last, Ma-Petit-Pierre, I should say. In future I will think of you by no other name, and in no other relation than that of my brother."
"Come, then; let us go to the château. I am so weary that I would ask shelter of an ogress, – if there were any."
"We'll take a crossroad, which will carry us there in ten minutes," said the young man. "Seat yourself more comfortably in the saddle; I will walk before you, and you must follow me; otherwise we might miss the path, which is very faint."
"Wait a moment," said Petit-Pierre, slipping from his horse.
"Where are you going?" asked Rameau-d'or, anxiously.
"You said your prayer beside that poor peasant, and I want to say mine."
"Don't think of it!"
"Yes, yes; he was a brave and honest man," persisted Petit-Pierre. "He would have risked his life for us; I may well offer a little prayer beside his body."
Rameau-d'or raised his hat and stood aside to let his young companion pass.
The lad, like Rameau-d'or, entered the cottage, took a branch of holly, dipped it in holy water, and sprinkled the body with it. Then he knelt down and prayed at the foot of the bed, after which he left the cottage, without exciting more attention than his companion had done.
The elder helped Petit-Pierre to mount, and together, one in the saddle, the other on foot, they took their way silently across the fields and along an almost invisible path which led, as we have said, in a straight line to the château de la Logerie. They had hardly gone a hundred steps into the grounds when Rameau-d'or stopped short and laid his hand on the bridle of the horse.
"What is it now?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"I hear steps," said the young man. "Draw in behind those bushes; I will stand against this tree. They'll probably pass without seeing us."
The man[oe]uvre was made with the rapidity of a military evolution, and none too soon; for the new-comer was seen to emerge from the darkness as the pair reached their posts. Rameau-d'or, whose eyes were by this time accustomed to the dim light, saw at once that he was a young man about twenty years of age, running, rather than walking, in the same direction as themselves. He had his hat in his hand, which made him the more easily recognized, and his hair, blown back by the wind, left his face entirely exposed.
An exclamation of surprise burst from Rameau-d'or, as the young man came close to him; then he hesitated a minute, still in doubt, and allowed the other to pass him by three or four steps, before he cried out: -
"Michel!"
The new-comer, who did not expect to hear his name called in that lonely place, jumped to one side, and said in a voice that quivered with emotion: -
"Who called me?"
"I," said Rameau-d'or, taking off his hat and a wig he had been wearing, and advancing to his friend with no other disguise than his Breton clothes.
"Henri de Bonneville!" exclaimed Baron Michel, in amazement.
"Myself. But don't say my name so loud. We are in a land where every bush and ditch and tree shares with the walls the privilege of having ears."
"True!" said Michel, alarmed; "and besides-"
"Besides what?" asked M. de Bonneville.
"You must have come for the uprising they talk of?"
"Precisely. And now, in two words, on which side are you?"
"I?"
"Yes, you."
"My good friend," said the young baron, "I have no fixed opinions; though I will admit in a whisper-"
"Whisper as much as you like; admit what? Make haste."
"Well, I will admit that I incline toward Henri V."
"My dear Michel," cried the count, gayly, "if you incline toward Henri V. that is enough for me."
"Stop; I don't say that I am positively decided."
"So much the better. I shall finish your conversion; and, in order that I may do so at once, I shall ask you to take me in for the night at your château, and also a friend who accompanies me."
"Where is your friend?" asked Michel.
"Here he is," said Petit-Pierre, riding forward, and bowing to the young baron, with an ease and grace that contrasted curiously with the dress he wore. Michel looked at the little peasant for a moment, and then approaching Bonneville, he said: -
"Henri, what is your friend's name?"
"Michel, you are lacking in all the traditions of hospitality. You forget the 'Odyssey,' my dear fellow,
