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We did not long remain upon the field of battle. Indeed, if we lingered at all it was but so that Mademoiselle might bandage Michelot's wound. And whilst she did so, my stout henchman related to us how it had fared with him, and how, having taken the two ruffians separately, he had been wounded by the first, whom he repaid by splitting his skull, whereupon the second one had discharged his pistol without effect, then made off towards the road, whilst Michelot, remembering that I might need assistance, had let him go.

“There, good Michelot,” quoth Mademoiselle, completing her task, “I have done what little I can. And now, M. de Luynes, let us go.”

It was close upon seven o'clock, and night was at hand. Already the moon was showing her large, full face above the tree-tops by Chambord, and casting a silver streak athwart the stream. The plash of oars from the Marquis's boat was waxing indistinct despite the stillness, whilst by the eye the boat itself was no longer to be distinguished.

As I turned, my glance fell upon the bravo whom I had shot. He lay stiff and stark upon his back, his sightless eyes wide open and staring heavenwards, his face all blood-smeared and ghastly to behold.

Mademoiselle shuddered. “Let us go,” she repeated in a faint whisper; her eye had also fallen on that thing, and her voice was full of awe. She laid her hand upon my sleeve and 'neath the suasion of her touch I moved away.

To our surprise and joy we found St. Auban's coach where we had left it, with two saddled horses tethered close by. The others had doubtless been taken by the coachman and the bravo who had escaped Michelot, both of whom had fled. These animals we looked upon as the spoils of war, and accordingly when we set out in the coach—Mademoiselle having desired me to ride beside her therein—Michelot wielding the reins, it was with those two horses tethered behind.

“Monsieur de Luynes,” said my companion softly, “I fear that I have done you a great injustice. Indeed, I know not how to crave your forgiveness, how to thank you, or how to hide my shame at those words I spoke to you this afternoon at Canaples.”

“Not another word on that score, Mademoiselle!”

And to myself I thought of what recompense already had been mine. To me it had been given to have her lean trustingly upon me, my arm about her waist, whilst, sword in hand, I had fought for her. Dieu! Was that not something to have lived for?—aye, and to have died for, methought.

“I deserved, Monsieur,” she continued presently, “that you should have left me to my fate for all the odious things I uttered when you warned me of my peril—for the manner in which I have treated you since your coming to Blois.”

“You have but treated me, Mademoiselle, in the only manner in which you could treat one so far beneath you, one who is utterly unworthy that you should bestow a single regret upon him.”

“You are strangely humble to-night, Monsieur. It is unwonted in you, and for once you wrong yourself. You have not said that I am forgiven.”

“I have naught to forgive.”

“Hélas! you have—indeed you have!”

“Eh, bien!” quoth I, with a return of my old tone of banter, “I forgive then.”

Thereafter we travelled on in silence for some little while, my heart full of joy at being so near to her, and the friendliness which she evinced for me, and my mind casting o'er my joyous heart a cloud of some indefinable evil presage.

“You are a brave man, M. de Luynes,” she murmured presently, “and I have been taught that brave men are ever honourable and true.”

“Had they who taught you that known Gaston de Luynes, they would have told you instead that it is possible for a vile man to have the one redeeming virtue of courage, even as it is possible for a liar to have a countenance that is sweet and innocent.”

“There speaks that humble mood you are affecting, and which sits upon you as my father's clothes might do. Nay, Monsieur, I shall believe in my first teaching, and be deaf to yours.”

Again there was a spell of silence. At last—“I have been thinking, Monsieur,” she said, “of that other occasion on which you rode with me. I remember that you said you had killed a man, and when I asked you why, you said that you had done it because he sought to kill you. Was that the truth?”

“Assuredly, Mademoiselle. We fought a duel, and it is customary in a duel for each to seek to kill the other.”

“But why was this duel fought?” she cried, with some petulance.

“I fear me, Mademoiselle, that I may not answer you,” I said, recalling the exact motives, and thinking how futile appeared the quarrel which Eugène de Canaples had sought with Andrea when viewed in the light of what had since befallen.

“Was the quarrel of your seeking?”

“In a measure it was, Mademoiselle.”

“In a measure!” she echoed. Then persisting, as women will—“Will you not tell me what this measure was?”

“Tenez, Mademoiselle,” I answered in despair; “I will tell you just so much as I may. Your brother had occasion to be opposed to certain projects that were being formed in Paris by persons high in power around a beardless boy. Himself of too small importance to dare wage war against those powerful ones who would have crushed him, your brother sought to gain his ends by sending a challenge to this boy. The lad was high-spirited and consented to meet M. de Canaples, by whom he would assuredly have been murdered—'t is the only word, Mademoiselle—had I not intervened as I did.”

She was silent for a moment. Then—“I believe you, Monsieur,” she said simply. “You fought, then, to shield another—but why?”

“For three reasons, Mademoiselle. Firstly, those persons high in power chose to think it my fault that the quarrel had arisen, and threatened to hang me if the duel took place and the boy were harmed. Secondly, I myself felt a kindness for the boy. Thirdly, because, whatever sins Heaven may record against me, it has at least ever been my way to side against men who, confident of their superiority, seek, with the cowardly courage of the strong, to harm the weak. It is, Mademoiselle, the courage of the man who knows no fear when he strikes a woman, yet who will shake with a palsy when another man but threatens him.”

“Why did you not tell me all this before?” she whispered, after a pause. And methought I caught a quaver in her voice.

I laughed for answer, and she read my laugh aright; presently she pursued her questions and asked me the name of the boy I had defended. But I evaded her, telling her that she must need no further details to believe me.

“It is not that, Monsieur! I do believe you; I do indeed, but—”

“Hark, Mademoiselle!” I cried suddenly, as the clatter of many hoofs sounded near at hand. “What is that?”

A shout rang out at that moment. “Halt! Who goes there?”

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Mademoiselle, drawing close up to me, and again the voice sounded, this time more sinister.

“Halt, I say—in the King's name!”

The coach came to a standstill, and through the window I beheld the shadowy forms of several mounted men, and the feeble glare of a lantern.

“Who travels in the carriage, knave?” came the voice again.

“Mademoiselle de Canaples,” answered Michelot; then, like a fool, he must needs add: “Have a care whom you knave, my master, if you would grow old.”

“Pardieu! let us behold this Mademoiselle de Canaples who owns so fearful a warrior for a coachman.”

The door was flung rudely open, and the man bearing the lantern—whose rays shone upon a uniform of the Cardinal's guards—confronted us.

With a chuckle he flashed the light in my face, then suddenly grew serious.

“Peste! Is it indeed you, M. de Luynes?” quoth he; adding, with stern politeness, “It grieves me to disturb you, but I have a warrant for your arrest.”

He was fumbling in his doublet as he spoke, and during the time I had leisure to scan his countenance, recognising, to my surprise, a young lieutenant of the guards who had but recently served with me, and with whom I had been on terms almost of friendship. His words, “I have a warrant for your arrest,” came like a bolt from the blue to enlighten me, and to remind me of what St. Auban had that morning told me, and which for the nonce I had all but forgotten.

Upon hearing those same words, Yvonne, methought, grew pale, and her eyes were bent upon me with a look of surprise and pity.

“Upon what charge am I arrested?” I enquired, with forced composure.

“My warrant mentions none, M. de Luynes. It is here.” And he thrust before me a paper, whose purport I could have read in its shape and seals. Idly my eye ran along the words:

“By these presents I charge and empower my lieutenant, Jean de Montrésor, to seize where'er he may be found, hold, and conduct to Paris the Sieur Gaston de Luynes—”

And so further, until the Cardinal's signature ended the legal verbiage.

“In the King's name, M. de Luynes,” said Montrésor, firmly yet deferentially, “your sword!”

It would have been madness to do aught but comply with his request, and so I surrendered my rapier, which he in his turn delivered to one of his followers. Next I stepped down from the coach and turned to take leave of Mademoiselle, whereupon Montrésor, thinking that peradventure matters were as they appeared to be between us, and, being a man of fine feelings, signed to his men to fall back, whilst he himself withdrew a few paces.

“Adieu, Mademoiselle!” I said simply. “I shall carry with me for consolation the memory that I have been of service to you, and I shall ever—during the little time that may be left me—be grateful to Heaven for the opportunity that it has afforded me of causing you—perchance without sufficient reason—to think better of me. Adieu, Mademoiselle! God guard you!”

It was too dark to see her face, but my heart bounded with joy to catch in her voice a quaver that argued, methought, regret for me.

“What does it mean, M. de Luynes? Why are they taking you?”

“Because I have displeased my Lord Cardinal, albeit, Mademoiselle, I swear to you that I have no cause for shame at the reasons for which I am being arrested.”

“My father is Monseigneur de Mazarin's friend,” she cried. “He is also yours. He shall exert for you what influence he possesses.”

“'T were useless, Mademoiselle. Besides, what does it signify? Again, adieu!”

She spoke no answering word, but silently held out her hand. Silently I took it in mine, and for a moment I hesitated, thinking of what I was—of what she was. At last, moved by some power that was greater than my will, I stooped and pressed those shapely fingers to my lips. Then I stepped suddenly back and closed the carriage door, oppressed by a feeling akin to that of having done an evil deed.

“Have I your permission to say a word to my servant, M. le Lieutenant?” I inquired.

He bowed assent, whereat, stepping close up to the horror-stricken Michelot—

“Drive straight to the Château de Canaples,” I said in a low voice. “Thereafter return to the Lys de France and there wait until you hear from me. Here, take my purse; there are some fifty pistoles in it.”

“Speak but the word, Monsieur,” he growled, “and I'll pistol a couple of these dogs.”

“Pah! You grow childish,” I laughed, “or can you not see that fellow's musket?”

“Pardieu! I'll risk his aim! I never yet saw one of these curs shoot straight.”

“No, no, obey me, Michelot. Think of Mademoiselle. Go! Adieu! If we should not meet again, mon brave,” I finished, as I seized his loyal hand, “what few things of mine are at the hostelry shall belong to you, as well as what may be left of this money. It is little enough payment, Michelot, for all your faithfulness—”

“Monsieur, Monsieur!” he cried.

“Diable!” I muttered, “we are becoming women! Be off, you knave! Adieu!”

The peremptoriness of my tone ended our leave-taking and caused him to grip his reins and bring down his whip. The coach moved on. A white face, on which the moonlight fell, glanced at me from the window, then to my staring eyes naught was left but the back of the retreating vehicle, with one of the two saddle-horses that had been tethered to it still ambling in its wake.

“M. de Montrésor,” I said, thrusting my bullet-pierced hat upon my head, “I am at your service.”