t none
other knew it----"

"And?" she asked, glancing up at him, while she stole her hand into
the folds of his cloak and again softly patted the child's little
dimpled cheek--"and----?"

"And," he continued, "I am sure now that against her life, or at least
her liberty, some attempt will be made--as it will against mine.
That," he said, sinking his voice to a whisper, "is why I am recalled
to Paris. Farewell!"

CHAPTER V.

THE GRAVEYARD.

By the time that the wintry night was about once more to close in upon
them they were nearing Aignay-le-Duc, having passed through the
village of Baigneux some two or three hours previously.

A change in the weather had set in; the snow had ceased to fall at
last; right in their faces from the north-northwest there blew a cold,
frosty wind; from beneath their horses' hoofs there came a crisp
sound, which told as plainly as words that the soft, feathery snow was
hardening, while the ease with which the animals now lifted their feet
showed that the travelling was becoming easier to them every moment.

"Courage! courage!" exclaimed St. Georges; "if we proceed thus we may
reach Chatillon-sur-Seine to-night. What think you, Boussac?"

On their road the men, as was natural between two comrades of the
sword, had become intimate, St. Georges telling the mousquetaire some
of that history of his life which will be unfolded as these pages
proceed, while the other had in a few words given him his own. His
name was Boussac--Armand Boussac--the latter drawn from a little
village or town in Lower Berri, wherein his father was a _petit
seigneur_.

"A poor place, monsieur," he said, "a rock--fortified, however,
strongly--and with a castle almost inaccessible except to the crows
and hawks. A place in which a man who would see the world can yet
scarce find the way to study his fellow-creatures. _Ma foi_, there are
not many there! A priest or two--those always!--some farmers whose
fields lie at the foot of the rock, some old crones who, no longer
able to earn anything in those fields, are kept until they die by
those who can. And on the rock a few soldiers drawn from the regiment
of Berri--men who eat their hearts out in despair when sent to
garrison it."

"A cheerful spot, in truth!" said St. Georges, with a smile; "no
wonder you left the rock and sought the mousquetaires. And I see by
your horse that you are of the black regiment.[3] How did you find
your way to it?"

[Footnote