for jesting, and Gabrielle was so pale and anxious that Lucette declared it was a good thing indeed no more of her features could be seen.
"Now for a bold face on things and a laugh if you can, Lucette," cried Pascal, "and we'll soon see whether an honest burgher and his wife cannot ride abroad together in this uncomfortable fashion on a fine July morning."
They rode slowly toward the city gate, Gerard and Gabrielle following some distance behind. Pascal laughed and gestured over his shoulder to Lucette, until coming in sight of the gate he said exultantly—
"God be thanked, it's open, Lucette. We shan't be husband and wife much longer, if all goes well."
"A thought which seems to give you consummate relief," she answered.
"Aye, the responsibilities of a husband weigh heavily on me, good wife—as heavily, maybe, as the double burden on this good patient beast. Good morning, monsieur," he broke off, as a soldier stepped in the way and held up his hand. But Pascal made no effort to check the horse, and was passing on with a nod and a smile when the man laid a hand on the bridle and brought the horse to a stop.
"What is it, monsieur?" asked Pascal. "Cannot an honest man and his wife pass on his business?"
"Yes, monsieur. All those who are known to us can pass. Dismount, if you please, and come to the officer of the gate."
Pascal mumbled something in a discontented tone and then dismounted.
He gave Lucette one glance with an ominous lift of the eyebrows. She understood the look—that the check was a very ugly one—but with an admirably feigned air of extreme vexation, she exclaimed—
"How you bungle things, Pascal. To bring me out
