d to
hold secrets dangerous and luring.

Riding gave me a great appetite, and I was fortunate in coming upon an
inn at Durtal whose table was worthy of my capacity. After dinner, we
took the road again and proceeded at an easy pace toward La Fleche.

Toward the middle of the afternoon a vague uneasiness stole over me, as
if some tragic circumstance lay waiting on the path--to me
unknown--ahead.

CHAPTER II.

A YOUNG MAN WHO WENT SINGING

It was about five o'clock when we rode into La Fleche, and the feeling
of ill foreboding still possessed me. Partly considering this, and
partly as it was improbable I should find the best accommodations
anywhere else short of Le Mans, I decided to put up here for the night.
As I rode into the central square of the town, I saw an inn there: it
had a prosperous and honest look, so I said, "This is the place for my
money," and made for it. The square was empty and silent when I entered
it, but just as I reached the archway of the inn, I heard a voice
singing, whereupon I looked around and saw a young man riding into the
square from another street than that I had come from. He was followed by
a servant on horseback, and was bound for the same inn. It seems strange
in the telling, that a gentleman should ride singing into a public
square, as if he were a mountebank or street-singer, yet it appeared
quite natural as this young fellow did it. The song was something about
brave soldiers and the smiles of ladies--just such a gay song as so
handsome a young cavalier ought to sing. I looked at him a moment, then
rode on into the inn-yard. This little act, done in all thoughtlessness,
and with perfect right, was the cause of momentous things in my life. If
I had waited to greet that young gentleman at the archway, I believe my
history would have gone very differently. As it was, I am convinced that
my carelessly dropping him from my regard, as if he were a person of no
interest, was the beginning of what grew between us. For, as he rode in
while I was dismounting, he threw at me a look of resentment for which
there was nothing to account but the possible wound to his vanity. His
countenance, symmetrically and somewhat boldly formed, showed great
self-esteem and a fondness for attention. His singing had suddenly
stopped. I could feel his anger, which was probably the greater for
having no real cause, I having been under no obligation to notice him or
offer him precedence.

He called