The poor soul may have understood his meaning, or she may not, as she
rocked herself to and fro in the roadway. The ribald songs of these
patriots, these apostles of freedom, had not died as they marched and
danced out of Trémont when there was a smell of burning in the air, and
first smoke, then flame burst from the tavern, quickly reducing it to a
heap of ashes. It was a strange grave for the charred remains of two men
who yesterday had been full of life. This was a time when things moved
apace and there was no prophesying from day to day.


Long since out of range of the smoke cloud rising in the morning sky,
Richard Barrington and Seth urged their horses along the road.

"Is this a wise journey?" Seth asked suddenly.

"I cannot tell."

"Paris might be safer."

"I promised to carry a message to a woman," Barrington answered. "The
man is dead; there remains my oath. Somewhere before us lies the Château
of Beauvais, and that is the way we go."




CHAPTER III

BEAUVAIS