e enough to gladden me without fretting that Lucas is
alive. Fare you well, Felix. You are like to reach St. Denis as soon as
I. My son's horse will not lag."

He sprang to the saddle with a smiling salute to his guardians, and the
little train clattered off.

Pierre came to my elbow with an open paper--the order signed and sealed
for M. de Mar's release.

"Here, my young cockerel, you and d'Auvray are to take this to the
Bastille, and it will be strange if your master does not walk free
again. His Grace bids you tell M. de Mar he remembers Wednesday night,
underground."

"And I remember Tuesday night in the council-room, Pierre," I was
beginning, but he cut me short. Even now that I was in favour, he risked
no mention of his disobedience. He packed me off with d'Auvray on the
instant; I had no chance to ask him whether he suspected us yesterday.
Sometimes I have thought he did, but I am bound to say he gave us no
look to show it.

D'Auvray and I walked straight across Paris to the many-towered
Bastille. It seemed a little way. Before the potent name of Mayenne bars
flew open; a sentry on guard in the court led us into a small room all
stone, floor, walls, ceiling, where sat at the table some high official,
perhaps the governor of the prison himself. He was an old campaigner,
grizzled and weather-beaten, his right sleeve hanging empty. An
interesting figure, no doubt, but I paid him scant attention, for at his
side stood Lucas.

"I come on M. de Mayenne's business," he was expostulating, vehement,
yet civil. "I suppose he did not think it necessary to write the order,
since you know me."

"The regulations, M. de Lorraine--" The officer broke off to demand of
our escort, "Well, what now?"

I went straight up to him, not waiting permission, and held out my
paper.

"An order, if it please you, monsieur, for the Comte de Mar's release."

Lucas's hand went out to snatch and crumple it; then his clenched fist
dropped to his side. It seemed as if his eyes would blacken the paper
with their fire.

"Just that--the requisition for M. de Mar's release," the officer told
him, looking up from it. "All perfectly regular and in order. In five
minutes, M. de Lorraine, the Comte de Mar shall be before you. You may
have all the conversation you wish."

Lucas's face was as blank as the wall.

"I am a soldier, and a soldier's orders must be obeyed," the officer
went on to explain, evidently not caring to offend the genera