leader as
he went on: "We have chased the air all day; are we to ride after
phantoms by night?"

"Fool! It is Mademoiselle de Paradis and her lover. He has wounded
me, and killed Trotto and Piero and Malsain, and escaped with her ten
minutes ago. They cannot have gone far, and the river must stop them.
After them!" And, panting with excitement, he ceased.

From the height of his saddle Aramon looked down on Simon, and whistled
low to himself.

"So monseigneur is wounded, which is bad for you, monseigneur; and
Piero is dead, which is good; and Malsain is dead, which is bad, for he
was my own man; and the captain Trotto is dead, which is good
again--for me, monseigneur."

"Fool! Will you waste time? Every moment is precious."

"Softly, monseigneur! There is plenty of time for me. Trotto is dead,
you say, and I sit here in my saddle captain of the wolves of
Fontevrault; and," he continued with a chuckle, "with a new king comes
a new policy, as you are aware, monseigneur."

"What do you mean?" asked Simon, with an uneasy note in his voice.

"I mean, monseigneur, that of late you have not played fair with us. I
mean that a sword that can slay as the one you describe is not one to
be meddled with by weary men; and I mean that I, Aramon, being captain
of these brave fellows now, intend to be my own captain for the future.
Is it not so, my wolves?"

There were gruff murmurs of assent, and Simon drew back a space. It
was not, however, from fear--Simon of Orrain never suffered from the
poltroon fever; he but drew back to strike hard, and to sell his life
dearly. They ringed him in--his own men who had turned against
him--and he stood with his back to the gate. He did not flinch, and
meant to fight, hopeless as it was, for all around him were white,
shining swords, that needed but a word from Aramon to be red with his
blood. But the new captain did not want this.

"Bah!" he said, "throw down your dagger, monseigneur. We want not your
life. For the present you will be the guest of Aramon--that is, until
you have paid me, and these gentlemen here, two thousand gold
Henris--fat gold Henris--for all our trouble. Come!--throw down the
dagger! Put a good face on it!"

CHAPTER XI

THE ROAD TO POITIERS

We reined up on the edge of a shelving bank, and the Mable swirled
before us. Beyond the alders on the opposite shore, but about a mile
higher upstream, lay Richelieu. Late though it was there were