within reach. "The vintage," this lady murmured. The vintage
promised to be a bad one. Nothing, assuredly, could be undertaken,
and no promise made, until the vintage was over.

So the meeting broke up without romance, and the conspirators
dispersed to their homes, carrying in their minds that mutual
distrust which is ever awakened in human hearts by the chink of
gold, while the dormant national readiness to detect betrayal by
England was suddenly wide awake.

Nevertheless, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had supplied the one
ingredient necessary to leaven the talk of these dreamers into
action. Even the notary found himself compelled to contribute when
Albert de Chantonnay asked him outright for a subscription. And the
priests, ably led by the Abbe Touvent, acted after the manner of the
sons of Levi since olden times. They did not give themselves, but
they told others to give, which is far better.

In due course the money was sent to England. It was the plain truth
that the Marquis de Gemosac had not sufficient in his pocket to
equip Loo Barebone with the clothes necessary to a seemly appearance
in France; or, indeed, to cover the expense of the journey thither.
Dormer Colville never had money to spare. "Heaven shaped me for a
rich man," he would say, lightly, whenever the momentous subject was
broached, "but forgot to fill my pockets."

It was almost the time of the vintage, and the country roads were
dotted with the shambling figures of those knights of industry who
seem to spring from the hedgerows at harvest-time in any country in
the world, when the Abbe Touvent sought out Marie in her cottage at