He was relaxing his grasp on her fingers to withdraw his hand; but her pressure tightened. He did not understand that he was going into danger, she thought. His friend's letter had only barely suggested it. He expected to encounter strange things, perhaps; but not definite danger. And there was danger to him, she was sure. When she asked herself why she felt it, the reason was her grandfather.
"Call as soon as you can; come to our house to-night," she bade before letting go his hand.
"Thank you; but of course I can't tell. B'jou," he added, looking at Green Sky. "Obliged for the lift."
"B'jou," Sam returned. "Obliged for cigarette."
Loutrelle smiled at Sam's smile and gave him half a dozen more cigarettes. Sam chirruped the horses on. Ethel sat so as to watch Barney Loutrelle as his figure moved off between the trees. He turned about once and waved at her; then, proceeding more swiftly, he soon vanished in a ravine. A few hundred yards further on, she heard the distant echo of a vigorous voice singing the lively tune of an old French song of the time of Napoleon:
". . . à Paris, à Paris . . .
Ah, j'y étais mousquetaire!"
At that point, the St. Florentin road and the path to Wheedon's were just on opposite sides of the rise of ground; and Ethel recognized that it was her newfound friend who was singing to himself as he went on alone to the Rock; and the lilt of the song, reaching her through the still air, stirred the blood to warmth again within her.
"Ah, j'y étais mousquetaire!"
