the thought was
like a bad taste in the mouth.

At Grand-Vouvray he forded the Loire, with Amboise sloping up from the
river in full sight, the red roofs of its houses, huddled almost
underneath the Chateau for protection, glowing yet more ruddily in the
setting sun, and entered the town by the Tours gate as Commines had
bidden him. Reared high above the town it at once awed and protected
was the grey castle, towered and turreted like a fortress, and fortress
it was,--fortress, palace, and prison in one. Round town and castle
alike lay the river, holding them in its embrace like a guardian arm,
and beyond stretched the rich fertility of the Orleannais.

The Chien Noir was easily found. It seemed as well known in Amboise as
Notre Dame in Paris, and from the warmth of his reception La Mothe
guessed shrewdly that his coming was expected. Innkeepers were not
prone to lavish welcomes on wandering minstrels who carried all their
world's gear on their back like any snail. For such light-hearted folk
an open window at night was an easier method of payment than an open
purse.

"A room and supper? Both, monsieur, and of the best. For the first
what do you say to this?" and the landlord threw open a door with a
flourish of pride. "Not in the Chateau itself will you find a better.
Two windows, as you see: bright by day and cool by night, with all the
life of the town passing up and down the road to keep you company if
you are dull, and the castle gates in full view so that none can go in
or out and you not know it. And for supper--I am my own cook and you
may trust Jean Saxe. Give me twenty minutes, monsieur, twenty little
minutes, and you'll say blessed be the Black Dog of Amboise!"

"And who are in the castle?"

"Two or three units with a dozen of noughts to their tail to give them
value; Monsieur de Commines----"

"Monsieur de Commines? Do you dare speak of Monsieur de Commines so
insolently?" burst out La Mothe, too indignant in his loyal devotion to
Commines to remember that a wandering singer ate the bread of
sufferance and had no opinions. But the innkeeper took no offence,
which again suggested that he had his own private opinion of the
knapsack and the lute.

"Monsieur, I meant no harm," he protested humbly. "I am Monsieur de
Commines' man--that is, the King's man--to the death."

"Well, let it pass. Who else are at the Chateau?"

"Mademoiselle de Vesc----"

"Does she come next in consequence?