lowly, as though they were weary. "Good-night,"
cried the Vicar--whether to them or to me or to all creation I know not.
The door closed on him. I stood for an instant, watching the retreating
form of the man who had enquired the way. A spirit of high excitement
came on me; it might be that all was not finished, and that Betty
Nasroth's prophecy should not bind the future in fetters. For there at
the inn was Carford, and here, if I did not err, was the man whom my
knowledge of French had so perplexed in the inn at Canterbury.

And Carford knew Fontelles. On what errand did they come? Were they
friends to one another or foes? If friends, they should find an enemy;
if foes, there was another to share their battle. I could not tell the
meaning of this strange conjuncture whereby the two came to Hatchstead;
yet my guess was not far out, and I hailed the prospect that it gave
with a fierce exultation. Nay I laughed aloud, but first knew that I
laughed when suddenly M. de Fontelles turned in his saddle, crying in
French to his servant:

"What was that?"

"Something laughed," answered the fellow in an alarmed voice.

"Something? You mean somebody."

"I know not, it sounded strange."

I had stepped in under the hedge when Fontelles turned, but his puzzle
and the servant's superstitious fear wrought on my excitement. Nothing
would serve me but to play a jest on the Frenchman. I laughed again
loudly.

"God save us!" cried the servant, and I make no doubt he crossed himself
most piously.

"It's some madman got loose," said M. de Fontelles scornfully. "Come,
let's get on."

It was a boy's trick--a very boy's trick. Save that I set down
everything I would not tell it. I put my hands to my mouth and bellowed:

"_Il vient!_"

An oath broke from Fontelles. I darted into the middle of the road and
for a moment stood there laughing again. He had wheeled his horse round,
but did not advance towards me. I take it that he was amazed, or, it may
be, searching a bewildered memory.

"_Il vient!_" I cried again in my folly, and, turning, ran down the
road at my best speed, laughing still. Fontelles made no effort to
follow me, yet on I ran, till I came to my mother's house. Stopping
there, panting and breathless, I cried in the exuberance of triumph:

"Now she'll have need of me!"

Certainly the thing the Vicar spoke of is a distemper. Whether divine or
of what origin I will not have judged by that night's prank of mine.

"T