on him in a manner truly frightful. When at last the blade had been
entirely withdrawn, a red froth issued from the mouth of the wounded man
and a stream of blood spouted afresh from the wound when he at length
drew breath; then, fixing his eyes upon Grimaud with a singular
expression, the dying man uttered the last death-rattle and expired.

Then Grimaud, lifting the dagger from the pool of blood which was
gliding along the room, to the horror of all present, made a sign to the
host to follow him, paid him with a generosity worthy of his master and
again mounted his horse. Grimaud's first intention had been to return to
Paris, but he remembered the anxiety which his prolonged absence might
occasion Raoul, and reflecting that there were now only two miles
between the vicomte and himself and a quarter of an hour's riding would
unite them, and that the going, returning and explanation would not
occupy an hour, he put spurs to his horse and a few minutes after had
reached the only inn of Mazingarbe.

Raoul was seated at table with the Count de Guiche and his tutor,
when all at once the door opened and Grimaud presented himself,
travel-stained, dirty, and sprinkled with the blood of the unhappy
executioner.

"Grimaud, my good Grimaud!" exclaimed Raoul "here you are at last!
Excuse me, sirs, this is not a servant, but a friend. How did you leave
the count?" continued he. "Does he regret me a little? Have you seen
him since I left him? Answer, for I have many things to tell you, too;
indeed, the last three days some odd adventures have happened--but what
is the matter? how pale you are! and blood, too! What is this?"

"It is the blood of the unfortunate man whom you left at the inn and who
died in my arms."

"In your arms?--that man! but know you who he was?"

"He used to be the headsman of Bethune."

"You knew him? and he is dead?"

"Yes."

"Well, sir," said D'Arminges, "it is the common lot; even an executioner
is not exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the moment I saw his wound,
and since he asked for a monk you know that it was his opinion, too,
that death would follow."

At the mention of the monk, Grimaud became pale.

"Come, come," continued D'Arminges, "to dinner;" for like most men of
his age and generation he did not allow sentiment or sensibility to
interfere with a repast.

"You are right, sir," said Raoul. "Come, Grimaud, order dinner for
yourself and when you have rested a little we can talk."