to gnaw at his chains in Bordeaux, while Hugues toasts his shins in
comfort at London. Adhelmar admitted that the plan was a mad one, but
added, reasonably enough, that needs must when the devil drives. And so
firm was his confidence, so cheery his laugh--he managed to laugh
somehow, though it was a stiff piece of work,--that Melite began to be
comforted somewhat, and bade him go and Godspeed.

So then Adhelmar left her. In the main hall he found the vicomte still
sitting over his wine of Anjou.

"Cousin," said Adhelmar, "I must ride hence to-night."

Reinault stared at him: a mastering wonder woke in Reinault's face.
"Ta, ta, ta!" he clicked his tongue, very softly. Afterward he sprang
to his feet and clutched Adhelmar by both arms. "No, no!" Reinault
cried. "No, Adhelmar, you must not try that! It is death, lad,--sure
death! It means hanging, boy!" the vicomte pleaded, for, hard man that
he was, he loved Adhelmar.

"That is likely enough," Adhelmar conceded.

"They will hang you,"' Reinault said again: "d'Andreghen and the Count
Dauphin of Vienna will hang you as blithely as they would Iscariot."

"That, too," said Adhelmar, "is likely enough, if I remain in France."

"Oy Dieus! will you flee to England, then?" the vicomte scoffed,
bitterly. "Has King Edward not sworn to hang you these eight years past?
Was it not you, then, cousin, who took Almerigo di Pavia, that Lombard
knave whom he made governor of Calais,--was it not you, then, who