uaine, at La Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne and draw upon
her purse as on a banker--with economy; for it is not so well filled as
that of Monsieur d'Emery."

And having, meantime, embraced his ward, he passed him into the robust
arms of Porthos, who lifted him up from the ground and held him a moment
suspended near the noble heart of the formidable giant.

"Come," said D'Artagnan, "let us go."

And they set out for Boulogne, where toward evening they arrived, their
horses flecked with foam and dark with perspiration.

At ten steps from the place where they halted was a young man in black,
who seemed waiting for some one, and who, from the moment he saw them
enter the town, never took his eyes off them.

D'Artagnan approached him, and seeing him stare so fixedly, said:

"Well, friend! I don't like people to quiz me!"

"Sir," said the young man, "do you not come from Paris, if you please?"

D'Artagnan thought it was some gossip who wanted news from the capital.

"Yes, sir," he said, in a softened tone.

"Are you not going to put up at the 'Arms of England'?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you not charged with a mission from his eminence, Cardinal
Mazarin?"

"Yes, sir."

"In that case, I am the man you have to do with. I am M. Mordaunt."

"Ah!" thought D'Artagnan, "the man I am warned against by Athos."

"Ah!" thought Porthos, "the man Aramis wants me to strangle."

They both looked searchingly at the young man, who misunderstood the
meaning of that inquisition.

"Do you doubt my word?" he said. "In that case I can give you proofs."

"No, sir," said D'Artagnan; "and we place ourselves at your orders."

"Well, gentlemen," resumed Mordaunt, "we must set out without delay,
to-day is the last day granted me by the cardinal. My ship is ready, and
had you not come I must have set off without you, for General Cromwell
expects my return impatiently."

"So!" thought the lieutenant, "'tis to General Cromwell that our
dispatches are addressed."

"Have you no letter for him?" asked the young man.

"I have one, the seal of which I am not to break till I reach London;
but since you tell me to whom it is addressed, 'tis useless to wait till
then."

D'Artagnan tore open the envelope of the letter. It was directed to
"Monsieur Oliver Cromwell, General of the Army of the English Nation."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan; "a singular commission."

"Who is this Monsieur Oliver Cromwell?" inquired Porthos.

"Formerly a brewer," replied t