waylaying, putting out of
existence forever. De Vannes's heir would be."

"Only--again--you do not know. Does not a man know whose son he is?"

Chatillon still lay far off on the plain through which they were
riding; the flickering flambeaux on its gate and walls were but little
specks of light at present, and St. Georges decided that he would
confide in the mousquetaire who had shown himself so good a friend
that night. Moreover, Boussac had said he was of gentle blood; his
being in the Mousquetaires proved it, since none were admitted who had
not some claim to good birth--above all, he wanted a friend, a
confidant. And as, in those days, there was scarcely any gulf between
the officers of the inferior grades and the soldiers themselves,
Boussac was well fitted to be that friend and confidant. Also he knew,
he felt now, since the attack of the evening, how insecure his own
life was; he recognised that at any moment the little motherless child
he bore on his breast might be left alone unfriended in the world.
Suppose, for instance, he fell to-night in a second attack, or ere he
reached Paris, in a week, or a month hence. Well! a mousquetaire whose
principal duties were in Paris near the king's person would be a
friend worth having!

So he told him his tale.

"My mother, a Protestant cavalier's daughter, was in Holland with her
father after the execution of the king. As you know, that country was
full of refugees from England. There she met my father, 'Captain St.
Georges.' But at that time De Vannes was out of favour with the court;
he was allied with the party of the Fronde, also he was a Protestant.
And I believe he was 'Captain St. Georges,' I believe he was my
mother's husband."

"Always you 'believe,' monsieur. Surely there must be proofs! Your
mother, what does she say?"

"She died," went on St. Georges, "when I was two years old--suddenly
of the plague that spread from Sardinia to many parts of Europe. It
was because of her memory that I spared that fellow we have left
behind from the infected grave. I would not condemn him to the death
that robbed me of her."

"Therefore," exclaimed Boussac, "you gathered nothing from her!"

"Nothing. I cannot even remember her. Nay, some more years had to pass
ere I, growing up, knew that my name was St. Georges. Then, as
gradually intelligence dawned, I learned from the man with whom I
lived, a Huguenot pastor at Montereau, that I had no mother, and that
my father