Rabecque, reflecting his master's mood--as becomes a good lackey--rode silent and gloomy a pace or two in the rear.
By noon they had reached Voiron, and here, at a quiet hostelry, they descended to pause awhile for rest and refreshment.

It was a chill, blustering day, and although the rain held off, the heavens were black with the promise of more to come.

There was a fire burning in the general-room of the hostelry, and Garnache went to warm him at its cheerful blaze.

Moodily he stood there, one hand on the high mantel shelf, one foot upon an andiron, his eyes upon the flames.
He was disconsolately considering his position; considering how utterly, how irrevocably he had failed; pondering the gibes he would have to stomach on his return to Paris, the ridicule it would incumb him to live down.

It had been a fine thing to breathe fire and blood and vengeance to Tressan yesterday, to tell him of the great deeds he would perform on his return.