wn on this
side of Troyes, it would be his duty here to give notice to any one in
authority of that attack having taken place.

"For," said he, "that it was premeditated who can doubt? The leader
spoke of me as a brigand who had stolen a child, while he himself was
the brigand who desired to steal my child. Then, see, Boussac, we were
followed--or preceded--from Dijon by that man who warned him we were
coming--merciful heavens! who could he have been?--so that it shows
plainly that I am a marked man. Marked! tracked! known all along the
route."

"But why? Why?" interposed Boussac. "Why is your life, the life of the
_pauvrette_, aimed at? Across whose path do you and she stand?"

"That I can but guess at," replied the other; "though I have long
suspected that I have powerful enemies to whom my existence was
hateful." Then, since their tired horses were now walking side by side
across a wide plain, at the end of which rose Chatillon, he leaned
over, and, putting his hand on the mousquetaire's saddle, said
gravely:

"Boussac, you have shown to-night the true metal you are made of.
Listen to me; hark to a secret; though first you must assure me you
will never divulge to any one that which I tell you until I give you
leave. Will you promise?"

"Ay," replied Boussac. "I will." Whereon he stretched out his own
hand, drawing off first the great riding gantlet he wore, and said,
"There's my hand. And with it the word of a brother soldier, of a
mousquetaire."

"So be it," taking the offered hand in his own. "Listen. I believe
that I am the Duke de Vannes."

"What!" exclaimed Boussac, "you the Duke de Vannes! _Mon Dieu_,
monsieur, this is extraordinary. But stay. You bewilder me. Your name
is St. Georges--if it is as you say, it should be De la Bresse. I knew
him--your father. He died at Salzbach the same day as Turenne did. And
_you believe_--do you not know? Or--or did--or was----"

"Stop there, Boussac. I can suppose what you are going to say. To ask
if my mother was--well, no matter. But be sure of this: if I am what I
think, I am his lawful son. His heir, and myself a De Vannes, the De
Vannes."

"But 'what you think!' 'what you believe yourself to be!' Do you not
know?"

"No. I may be his son, I may in truth be only Monsieur St. Georges.
Yet--yet--this attack on me and mine points to the presumption that I
am what I believe myself to be. The cavalry soldier, St. Georges, and
his helpless babe would not be worth