THE CAMP OF BOULOGNE My uncle was still standing at the castle gateway, the very picture of a usurper, with our own old coat-of-arms of the bend argent and the three blue martlets engraved upon the stones at either side of him.

He gave me no sign of greeting as I mounted the large grey horse which was awaiting me, but he looked thoughtfully at me from under his down-drawn brows, and his jaw muscles still throbbed with that stealthy rhythmical movement.

I read a cold and settled malice in his set yellow face and his stern eyes.

For my own part I sprang readily enough into the saddle, for the man's presence had, from the first, been loathsome to me, and I was right glad to be able to turn my back upon him.

And so, with a stern quick order from the lieutenant and a jingle and clatter from the troopers, we were off upon our journey.