The Light That Lures | Page 4

Richard, I did."
"Then, Monsieur de Lafayette, it might be that some day I might cross
the sea to help France."
The Marquis laughed softly and patted the boy's head.
"So that is your dream. I hope freedom may be bought without blood,
but--"
"But you do not think so, sir."
"Why should you say that?"
"Partly because of the way you say it, partly because I have been told
that you are farseeing. I have listened so eagerly to all the stories told
about you."
"If such a fight for freedom came in France, it would be far more
terrible than the war here," and the Marquis made the statement rather
to himself than to the boy.
"Then it may be my duty to come and help you," said Richard.
"If the opportunity should come, see that your adventurous spirit does
not make it your duty whether it be so or not. There are some years to
pass before these young limbs of yours are fit for fighting, or this brain
of yours has to make a decision. You have a good father and mother,
they will guide you. Dream your dreams, and I doubt not, my friend
Richard Barrington will become a hero to many. Are you coming back

to the house with me? Within an hour I am leaving."
"You are going back to France?"
"Yes."
"It is a wonderful land, isn't it?"
"To a true man his own country is always a wonderful land."
"Yes, and I am mostly French," said the boy.
"No, lad. You are an American, a Virginian. Be proud of it."
"I am proud of it, sir; yet a Virginian gentleman might fight for
France."
"And France might be glad to claim his sword. Yes, that is true. Well,
lad, come in peace or in war, do not fail to make inquiry in Paris for
Lafayette. He shall return you something of the courtesy which has
been shown to him in this country and in your father's house."
"Thank you, oh, thank you a thousand times. I can talk about it to my
mother now. She shall share my dreams."
As he went toward the house he looked back across the waters of the
bay. Yet another sail, with the sun upon it, was fading slowly into the
distant haze.
CHAPTER I
THE MAN BY THE ROADSIDE
A solemn twilight, heavy and oppressive, was closing a dull,
slumberous day. It was late in the year for such weather. Not a breath
stirred in the trees by the roadside, not a movement in hedge or ditch;
some plague might have swept across the land, leaving it stricken and
desolate, even the cottages here and there showed no lights and
appeared to be deserted. The road ran straight between ill-conditioned

and neglected fields, and for an hour or more no traveler had passed
this way, yet it was a high road, and at a few miles distance was Paris.
Yonder toward the northeast lay the city, the twilight heavy over it too,
but it was not silent. The throb of human passion and anger beat in it
with quick, hammering strokes, and men and women, looking into one
another's eyes, either laughed while they sang and danced madly, or
shrank away, afraid of being seen, fearing to ask questions.
The twilight had grown deeper, and the horizon was narrowing quickly
with the coming of night, when the sound of horses' hoofs broke the
silence and two riders came rapidly round a bend into the long stretch
of straight road, traveling in the direction of Paris. They rode side by
side as comrades and as men with a purpose, a definite destination
which must be reached at all hazards, yet at a casual glance it would
appear that they could have little in common. One was an elderly man
with grizzled hair, face deeply lined, sharp eyes which were screwed up
and half closed as if he were constantly trying to focus things at a
distance. He was tall, chiefly accounted for by his length of leg, and as
thin as a healthy man well could be. His horsemanship had no easy
grace about it, and a casual observer might have thought that he was
unused to the saddle. There would have been a similar opinion about
anything this man did; he never seemed to be intended for the work he
was doing, yet it was always well done. He was a silent man, too, and
his thoughts were seldom 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