amp in an hour's time
dressed as you are. You might be any gentleman travelling upon the high
road. I shall see Gerard, and we shall adopt some suitable disguise.
Bring your pistols, for it is with the most desperate man in France we
have to do. We shall have a horse at your disposal.'

The setting sun lay dull and red upon the western horizon, and the white
chalk cliffs of the French coast had all flushed into pink when I found
myself once more at the gate of the Boulogne Camp. There was no sign of
my companions, but a tall man, dressed in a blue coat with brass buttons
like a small country farmer, was tightening the girth of a magnificent
black horse, whilst a little further on a slim young ostler was waiting
by the roadside, holding the bridles of two others. It was only when I
recognised one of the pair as the horse which I had ridden on my first
coming to camp that I answered the smile upon the keen handsome face of
the ostler, and saw the swarthy features of Savary under the
broad-brimmed hat of the farmer.

'I think that we may travel without fearing to excite suspicion,' said
he. 'Crook that straight back of yours a little, Gerard! And now we
shall push upon our way, or we may find that we are too late.'

My life has had its share of adventures, and yet, somehow, this ride
stands out above the others.

There over the waters I could dimly see the loom of the English coast,
with its suggestions of dreamy villages, humming bees, and the pealing
of Sunday bells. I thought of the long, white High Street of Ashford,
with its red brick houses, and the inn with the great swinging sign.
All my life had been spent in these peaceful surroundings, and now, here
I was with a spirited horse between my knees, two pistols peeping out of
my holsters, and a commission upon which my whole future might depend,
to arrest the most redoubtable conspirator in France. No wonder that,
looking back over many dangers and many vicissitudes, it is still that
evening ride over the short crisp turf of the downs which stands out
most clearly in my memory. One becomes _blase_ to adventure, as one
becomes _blase_ to all else which the world can give, save only the
simple joys of home, and to taste the full relish of such an
expedition one must approach it with the hot blood of youth still
throbbing in one's veins.

Our route, when we had left the uplands of Boulogne behind us, lay along
the skirts of that desolate marsh in which I