Caryl Carne waited in the shelter of a tree, scarcely deserving to be
called a tree, except for its stiff tenacity. All the branches were
driven by the western gales, and scourged flat in one direction--that in
which they best could hold together, and try to believe that their life
was their own. Like the wings of a sea bird striving with a tempest,
all the sprays were frayed alike, and all the twigs hackled with the
self-same pile. Whoever observes a tree like this should stop to wonder
how ever it managed to make itself any sort of trunk at all, and how
it was persuaded to go up just high enough to lose the chance of ever
coming down again. But Carne cared for nothing of this sort, and heeded
very little that did not concern himself. All he thought of was how he
might persuade his master to try the great issue at once.
While he leaned heavily against the tree, with his long sea-cloak
flapping round his legs, two horsemen struck out of the Ambleteuse road,
and came at hand-gallop towards him. The foremost, who rode with short
stirrups, and sat his horse as if he despised him, was the foremost man
of the world just now, and for ten years yet to come.
Carne ran forward to show himself, and the master of France dismounted.
He always looked best upon horseback, as short men generally do, if they
ride well; and his face (which helped to make his fortune) appeared
even more commanding at a little distance.
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