heard creaking harshly in their sockets
as the gate was being opened for them, St. Georges turning to his
comrade said, in answer to his last question:

"I know no more, though still my belief is fixed. But, Boussac, she at
whose manoir I am bidden to stay at Troyes--the Marquise de
Roquemaure--may be able to enlighten me. She was, if all reports are
true, beloved by De Vannes once, and I have heard loved him. Yet they
never married--perhaps because they were of different faith--and she
instead married De Roquemaure, De Vannes's cousin and heir. He left a
son by his first wife, who is now that heir in his place. Boussac,
does any light break in on you now--can you conceive why I and my
little darling asleep under my cloak should run hourly, daily risks of
assassination--ay! even as to-night we have run them?"

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Boussac, "yes. You stand in the path of----"

"Precisely. Hush! See, the gate is open. We may enter."

The soldiers of the guard saluted St. Georges as he rode in, followed
by the mousquetaire, while the officer of the night, after bowing
politely to him, held out his hand, as greeting to a comrade.

"Monsieur has had a cold journey, though fine--Heavens!" he exclaimed,
as he saw that the other had a strange burden under his cloak, "what
does monsieur carry there?"

"A harmless child," St. Georges said, while the men of the garrison
gathered round to peer at the little creature whose blue eyes were now
staring at them in the rays of the great lantern that swung over the
gateway. "My child, whose life would have been taken to-night by five
desperadoes had it not been for this honest mousquetaire who, by
Heaven's providence, happened to be riding my road."

From the soldiers around the newcomers--some risen half asleep from
their wooden planks in the guard room, some already on duty and with
every sense awake to its utmost--there rose a murmur of indignation
that was not at all extinguished by Boussac's description of the
attack in the graveyard, and at the passes made more than once at
Dorine under his own guard and the _chevau-leger's_ arm.

"_Grand Dieu!_" exclaimed the officer, "five men attack two, and one
burdened with a little child under his arm. Of what appearance were
these assassins?"

St. Georges described them as well as he could--mentioning in
particular the leader, who wore the burganet, and the fellow who
skulked outside the fight--the man who, the comrades knew, ha