expressed in his face.

His companion was a young man, twenty-five or twenty-six, although his
face might suggest that he was somewhat older. His was a strong face,
cleanly cut, intelligent, purposeful, yet there was also a certain
reserve, as though he had secrets in his keeping which no man might
know. Like his comrade, there was little that escaped his keen
observation, but at times there was a far-off look in his eyes, as
though the present had less interest for him than the future. He sat his
horse as one born to the saddle; his hands were firm, his whole frame
full of physical force, energy, and endurance--a man who would act
promptly and with decision, probably a good man to have as a friend,
most certainly an awkward one to have as an enemy.

"We delayed too long at our last halt, Seth. I doubt whether we shall
see Paris to-night," he said presently, but made no effort to check the
pace of his horse.

"I've been doubting that for an hour past, Master Richard," was the
answer.

The grizzled man was Seth, or sometimes Mr. Seth, to all who knew him.
So seldom had he heard himself called Seth Dingwall that he had almost
forgotten the name. Born in Louisiana, he believed he had French blood
in him, and spoke the language easily. He had gone with his mistress to
Virginia when she married Colonel Barrington, and to him Broadmead was
home, and he had no relation in the wide world.

"Is it so necessary to reach the city to-night?" he asked after a pause.

"I had planned to do so."

The answer was characteristic of the man. As a boy, when he had made up
his mind to do a thing, he did it, even though well-merited punishment
might follow, and the boy was father to the man. Save in years and
experience, this was the same Richard Barrington who had dreamed as he
watched sunlit sails disappear in the haze over Chesapeake Bay.

"I was thinking of the horses," said Seth. "I reckon that we have a long
way to travel yet."

"We may get others presently," Barrington answered, and then, after a
moment's pause, he went on: "We have seen some strange sights since we
landed--ruined homes, small and great, burned and desolated by the
peasants; and in the last few hours we have heard queer tales. I do not
know how matters stand, but it looks as if we might be useful in Paris.
That is why we must push on."

"Master Richard," he said slowly.

"Yes."

"Have you ever considered how useless a man may be?"

"Ay, often, and know