"Not more remarkable than your forebodings," Barrington returned. "You
have not always been so quick to talk of danger."

"Maybe it's the different air. I prefer the breeze that comes off
Chesapeake Bay to that of these hills, and there's a devil of depression
in this cockloft, it seems to me."

"Come out of it, then. Hunger and thirst are at the bottom of your
croaking. We will go eat and drink and gather news."

"And at this ball, Master Richard, see that you think more of the
readiness of your arms than your grace in a dance."

Barrington laughed as he descended the narrow stairs, but he was not
heedless of his companion's warnings. He was fully alive to the danger
he was in, and if the truth must be told, was not particularly pleased
to find himself in Beauvais. He would far rather have been in Paris. The
romantic element in this unexpected adventure did not greatly appeal to
him. He had crossed the ocean to help an oppressed people; he was full
of enthusiasm for a cause, so much an enthusiast that the two braggart
representatives of the people with whom he had come in contact at
Trémont had in no way disillusioned him. Refuse must needs be cast on
the wave crests of a revolution; but there was also Lafayette. He was
the people's true representative, and Barrington longed to be at his
side to help him. He had promised to deliver a message, believing that
he was undertaking a comparatively small matter, and just when he
learned that a journey into Switzerland was involved, interruption had
come and the man had lost consciousness. Barrington had fully intended
to explain to the wounded man that such a journey was impossible. After