could and made forward in the direction I was bent on. Then came my third surprise. I had started at a fairly good gait when an arrow whistled past my face and buried itself in the trunk of a great tree. My flesh crept from the very terror of my situation. There was one thing to do, I thought, and that was to take the bridle in my teeth and make the best of it.

I plunged on ahead recklessly. I am sure that I was as white as a ghost. It is one thing to have an enemy in front of you with whom you are matched on even terms. It is another to be beset by lurking foes who are able to strike unseen and who have every advantage in position and in weapons. But even at that the spirit of desperation was strong within me, for I was resolved to use my last speck of strength to worm myself through the woods and to make for home.

But my resolutions were nipped in the bud before I had fairly formed them. I was just getting into full career when another arrow passed my face, this time closer than the first and whistled on among the trees. But I did not stop. I bent my head low to the ground. I grasped the piece of mail more firmly in my hand. I was breathing hard, but more from the strain I was under than from actual labor. Three strides further and a third arrow buried itself in the turf straight before me and snapped with a little click.

I could not help looking down for my face was directed towards the ground. To my amazement, even in the gloom of the woods, I spied a piece of parchment tied in a hard knot on the haft of the missile.

“A message,” I thought. “Is it a warning from a friend? Or a threat from a hidden foe?”

As quick as a flash I stooped and snatched it open. There I read in letters scrawled as coarsely and as rudely as a child would write the words:

GO BACK BY THE ROAD

I trembled a little, I must confess. Whether from friend or foe, it was wisest to obey. If I insisted on going on ahead, I knew I would surely be killed. If I were to go back—well, there was a ray of hope.

I turned. I was as much in the hands of Fate as ever was any man alive. This time I did not run but kept on at a steady gait. At every step I was in expectation of some fresh attack, to be confronted by one of the two men who had assailed me, or by a knife darting through the air, or even by an arrow. But to my surprise the woods were as calm as when I first entered them. The rain dripped slowly from the overhanging branches and the light wind fanned and cooled my heated cheeks.

I was soon past the place where I had met my first foe. To my imagination it was like a tale I had heard of a superstitious person’s passing a place haunted by a ghost. My eyes were on the alert. At any second I expected a fresh attack. I thought I heard a low groan. I let the thought pass as though it were the promptings of fear. Then I heard it again and with it some words that I could not understand. I looked about and there to my amazement I saw the fellow who had first threatened me with his back to a tree. A strong cord held his wrists tied together, while another wrapped around his body held him firmly fastened against the trunk.

At the sight of me he cleared his throat.

“Come here!” he commanded.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Will you loose these bonds?” he said.

“I know when I’m safe,” I replied. “I’ll do nothing of the kind.”

He growled something under his breath.

“If you do,” he went on half coaxingly and half in a threat, “I’ll tell you a story that’s worth while.”

“You’ve told me enough already,” said I, and started on my way.

But he was insistent.

“Wait,” he commanded once more. “Will you give me a mouthful of water, then?”

“There’s enough dripping from the trees,” I shot back at him. “Turn your face up and you’ll easily slacken your thirst.”

He growled deeper than before but he realized that I was not to be taken as lightly as he thought. I went on. There was no more interruption. The fellow with the wounded hand might have been lurking somewhere in the neighborhood. He might even be standing behind a tree. But as far as I was concerned, he did not appear and in quicker time than I had come in, I was out of the woods and on the road that led in a roundabout way to my home.

I breathed a great sigh of relief when I tramped up the gravel walk that led to the house. With no ado I pushed open the front door and entered. In the great hall there were two men, the one my brother André and the old Count of Gramont who lived in the castle on the hill. They had just finished lighting the candles. There was no fire in the open hearth and the room was cold and chilled with the damp. The old Count was pacing nervously up and down the floor muttering to himself in his deep rolling tones. My brother’s face was as white as chalk and lines of worry lay across his forehead. He was standing at the long oaken table that stood in the centre of the room winding a piece of linen about his lower arm. I did not speak for at the first glance I noticed that, as he wound, the blood kept oozing through the bandages from the place where he had been wounded.

CHAPTER III
A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT

I stood stock still in the middle of the floor. My brother looked at me from head to foot.

“Le Brun has been here, Henri,” he said calmly. And then in a low voice, “I was afraid that something had happened to you, you return so late.”

“Something has happened,” I burst forth and in shaking tones told him of my adventures in the woods.

“They are agents of the King,” cried the old Count. “They are everywhere about us. They are not satisfied that they have taken my son. They will——”

My mouth fell open in amazement.

“They have taken Charles?” I asked. “Is it true then that he was at the meeting at Rouen? You can——”

“It was a meeting of the nobles of Normandy,” he interrupted. “I thought I was too old to go myself so I sent my only son. They were to make plans to protect us against the aggressions of the King. But the secret leaked out. Some traitor in our ranks betrayed us. Every man in the gathering was taken. A full dozen were beheaded behind the walls of the town. A few were sent off as prisoners, to be scattered among the castles of the King.”

“—and Charles?” I cried.

The old man sighed and ground his teeth.

“He is on his way down the valley of the Loire,” he rumbled deep in his throat, “to be mewed up till the crack of doom.”

The blood left my face. A chill of horror ran through every limb.

“We shall bring him back, Henri,” said André with a ring in his voice. “If it takes the last drop of blood of the last Norman, we shall bring him back. But we shall have to wait.”

The old Count flung his hand in the air. The fire flashed from his eyes and he began to stride again across the floor.

“Wait!” he demanded. “Wait! That is the only word you know. We have waited long enough already. I’ll not bide another day.” He turned wildly towards the rack that held my brother’s arms. “I’ll take this,” he cried laying his strong hand upon a battle-ax. “I’ll go to the King, where he sits upon his throne. I’ll demand of him why he dared to lay his finger upon my son. I’ll offer him his choice, whether he will give me my son back—or perish at my feet.”