-Mars had time to rise and follow him.

"Where are you going? What is the matter?" he cried.

But no one answered.

"Do not call out, in the name of Heaven!" said Marie, "or I am lost; he
has doubtless heard some one in the church."

But D'Effiat, agitated, and without answering her, rushed forth, and
sought his late tutor through the church, but in vain. Drawing his
sword, he proceeded to the entrance which Grandchamp had to guard; he
called him and listened.

"Now let him go," said a voice at the corner of the street; and at the
same moment was heard the galloping of horses.

"Grandchamp, wilt thou answer?" cried Cinq-Mars.

"Help, Henri, my dear boy!" exclaimed the voice of the Abbe Quillet.

"Whence come you? You endanger me," said the grand ecuyer, approaching
him.

But he saw that his poor tutor, without a hat in the falling snow, was
in a most deplorable condition.

"They stopped me, and they robbed me," he cried. "The villains, the
assassins! they prevented me from calling out; they stopped my mouth
with a handkerchief."

At this noise, Grandchamp at length came, rubbing his eyes, like one
just awakened. Laure, terrified, ran into the church to her mistress;
all hastily followed her to reassure Marie, and then surrounded the old
Abbe.

"The villains! they bound my hands, as you see. There were more than
twenty of them; they took from me the key of the side door of the
church."

"How! just now?" said Cinq-Mars; "and why did you quit us?"

"Quit you! why, they have kept me there two hours."

"Two hours!" cried Henri, terrified.

"Ah, miserable old man that I am!" said Grandchamp; "I have slept while
my master was in danger. It is the first time."

"You were not with us, then, in the confessional?" continued Cinq-Mars,
anxiously, while Marie tremblingly pressed against his arm.

"What!" said the Abbe, "did you not see the rascal to whom they gave my
key?"

"No! whom?" cried all at once.

"Father Joseph," answered the good priest.

"Fly! you are lost!" cried Marie.

BOOK 6

CHAPTER XXII. THE STORM

'Blow, blow, thou winter wind;
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude.
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly.
Most friendship is feigning; most loving mere folly.'

SHAKESPEARE.

Amid t