All this Amédé understood well enough, he cursed Adèle a thousand times in his heart for being such a snake in the grass. What he could not understand was why these strangers should take an interest in him and in his fate. When to his timid query on that subject their leader laughingly replied: “Sport! mon ami, the fun, the excitement! nothing more philanthropic, I assure you, than just sport!” he understood still less.
No wonder that to him, Amédé Colombe, the whole adventure had come as a manifestation of something supernatural. As for M. de Frontenac, his fellow-sufferer, on the other hand, he had apparently been prepared for that manifestation. It appeared that Madame and Mademoiselle had already been rescued from peril and taken to a place of safety, where presently M. de Frontenac would be able to join them, always through the instrumentality of these wonder-working strangers. The last thing M. de Frontenac had said to him, Amédé, when he took leave of him a couple of days ago, somewhere in the lonely mountain paths where the party had called a halt, was: “Trust these Englishmen, Amédé, trust them with everything you hold dear. Look at me, had I not trusted them with my wife and daughter, I should have seen my dear ones first, and myself afterwards, facing the guillotine at this very hour!”
It was with these words ringing in his ears, that Amédé, sitting now amongst these men to whom he owed his life, had mustered up sufficient courage to reiterate more firmly: “It is not for myself I am anxious, milor’.”
“I know that, mon ami,” Sir Percy replied, “you are thinking of that brave little girl—Fleurette. Isn’t that her name?”
“Yes, milor’,” Amédé whispered timidly.
“Some of my friends and I are going straightway back to look after her now.”
“And you will hurry, milor’, you will hurry, will you not? Every day may be fatal for her.”
“I think not,” Blakeney said in that decisive way of his, which carried so much conviction. “You told me she was the daughter of a man high up in the councils of the revolutionary government.”
“One Armand, milor’,” Amédé continued. “Little is known of him in the neighbourhood, save that he is a widower and apparently has influence with the government.”
“Fleurette is an only child?”
“Yes. She has lived at Lou Mas all her life.”
“If her father has influence he can protect her for a time.”
“For a time—yes! But—oh milor’!” the poor young man suddenly burst out with passionate vehemence, “if anything were to happen to Fleurette, I would curse you for having saved my life.”
Blakeney smiled at the young man’s eagerness.
“Listen, friend Amédé,” he said lightly, “are you going to trust me and my friends?”
And Amédé, who remembered those last solemn words spoken by M. de Frontenac, looked into those lazy grey eyes, meeting that half earnest, half-humorous glance beneath the heavy lids, replied simply: “Yes, milor’!”
“And you will accord me what my friends accord so ungrudgingly, bless them, implicit obedience?”
Again Amédé replied simply: “Yes, milor’!” And then he added: “What am I to do?”
“For the moment nothing,” Sir Percy replied, “but remain here quietly and alone until you hear from me again. Can you do it?”
“If you command.”
“You won’t mind the loneliness?”
“I shall be thinking of Fleurette and trusting you.”
“Come, that’s brave!” Sir Percy concluded lightly. “You will find some provisions in the armoire in this room: but apart from that you will find your way every day down to the river, and turning to your right, you will walk along its bank till you come to a derelict shed hidden from view by two old walnut trees. In a corner of the shed, beneath a pile of leaves, you will find something to comfort you, either a loaf of bread, or a piece of cheese, sometimes a jug of milk or a bottle of wine. Scanty fare probably, but it will suffice to keep the wolf from the door. Those who supply it are poor and risk much to do it. They owe my friends and me a debt which they pay in this fashion. Now are you prepared to live this life of a lonely anchorite while my friends and I return to Laragne and gather news of your Fleurette?”
“If I could only come with you, milor’!” Amédé sighed.
“Tush, man, what were the good of that?” Sir Percy retorted with a slight note of impatience in his pleasant voice. “You would only lead us all—and your Fleurette—into trouble.”
“But you will bring me news of her soon?” Amédé entreated with tears in his kind, innocent-looking eyes.
“Either news of her—or Fleurette herself.”
Amédé shook his head. “She would not leave her father,” he said dolefully.
“Then she will be safe with him, until better times come along, which will be very soon, friend Amédé, you may take that from me. Another few months—very few—and the dragon’s own teeth will be turned against itself. This anarchy cannot endure forever, because all evil, friend Amédé, is by the grace of God finite.”
He spoke these last words with unwonted earnestness, and simple Amédé Colombe looked up to him with awe as to a prophet standing there, magnificent in energy and strength, head thrown back, the lazy eyes beneath their heavy lids flashing with unquenchable inner fire. And suddenly he checked himself, laughter chased away earnestness, the eyes twinkled with merriment like those of a carefree schoolboy, rather than a seer.
“La!” he said lightly, “I verily believe we were waxing serious. No cause for that, eh, friend Amédé? My friends and I are off on a gay adventure. To take a message of love from you to a brave little girl who loves you, a shade better methinks, than
