cutioner of Bethune."

"The former executioner of Bethune!" murmured the young monk, shrinking
back and showing on his countenance the feeling of repugnance which his
penitent inspired.

Monsieur d'Arminges, who was at the door, perceived his hesitation.

"Sir monk," said he, "whether he is now or has been an executioner, this
unfortunate being is none the less a man. Render to him, then, the last
service he can by any possibility ask of you, and your work will be all
the more meritorious."

The monk made no reply, but silently wended his way to the room where
the two valets had deposited the dying man on a bed. D'Arminges and
Olivain and the two grooms then mounted their horses, and all four
started off at a quick trot to rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just
as the tutor and his escort disappeared in their turn, a new traveler
stopped on the threshold of the inn.

"What does your worship want?" demanded the host, pale and trembling
from the discovery he had just made.

The traveler made a sign as if he wished to drink, and then pointed to
his horse and gesticulated like a man who is brushing something.

"Ah, diable!" said the host to himself; "this man seems dumb. And where
will your worship drink?"

"There," answered the traveler, pointing to the table.

"I was mistaken," said the host, "he's not quite dumb. And what else
does your worship wish for?"

"To know if you have seen a young man pass, fifteen years of age,
mounted on a chestnut horse and followed by a groom?"

"The Viscount de Bragelonne?

"Just so."

"Then you are called Monsieur Grimaud?"

The traveler made a sign of assent.

"Well, then," said the host, "your young master was here a quarter of an
hour ago; he will dine at Mazingarbe and sleep at Cambrin."

"How far is Mazingarbe?"

"Two miles and a half."

"Thank you."

Grimaud was drinking his wine silently and had just placed his glass on
the table to be filled a second time, when a terrific scream resounded
from the room occupied by the monk and the dying man. Grimaud sprang up.

"What is that?" said he; "whence comes that cry?"

"From the wounded man's room," replied the host.

"What wounded man?"

"The former executioner of Bethune, who has just been brought in
here, assassinated by Spaniards, and who is now being confessed by an
Augustine friar."

"The old executioner of Bethune," muttered Grimaud; "a man between
fifty-five and sixty, tall, strong, swarthy, black hair