for Marie de Mancini and for La Mothe Houdancourt. Also he
knew Turenne and Conde--and also much more than the world knew or will
ever know."

"Turenne and Conde!" St. Georges echoed. "Two great captains. Two
great rivals and friends! So! Perhaps he will tell me something of
them to-night. They are names for a soldier to respect. _Bon soir, la
compagnie_," and he made toward the door.

They wished him good-night, the hostess telling him to have no fear,
the child should be well attended to, and the mousquetaire saluting
him; then the latter said: "Monsieur rides north again to-morrow, as I
heard him say. I too go forward to Bar. If monsieur permits, and since
the roads are bad and often infested with vile characters, I will ride
part way with him."

St. Georges looked at the young man; observed his stalwart frame--as
big as his own--his honest face and clear gray eyes, the former ruddy
with many a march and much exposure; then he said: "_Soit!_ We will
ride together; Bar is more than twenty leagues on the journey I have
to make. We must part before it is reached. Still, let us set out
together. At what hour do you leave?"

"As soon after daybreak as possible, monsieur, if that is convenient."

"It shall be. I will quit Phelypeaux at the dawn." Then St. Georges
added aside: "Comrade, I leave here in the inn the two things dearest
to me in the world--my child and horse. I confide them to you. Will
you accept the trust until the morning?"

"With the greatest will, monsieur. Trust me. Ere I sleep to-night I
will see that all is well with both. You may depend on me."

"So be it," replied St. Georges. "I do depend on you. Farewell till
dawn," and he strode across the great, gaunt _place_, on which the
snow still fell and lay.

"'Ring loud!' the old man said," he muttered to himself; "well, here's
for it," and he pulled a peal on the bell chain hanging by the side of
the door that might have waked the dead. Then, as he stood there
musing on why the king should have given him orders to put up at such
a place as Phelypeaux's instead of enjoying the solid, if rough,
comfort of a Burgundian inn, the wicket opened again and the old man's
sour face appeared once more at it.

"So!" he said, "you have come back. And I perceive you have left the
child behind you. 'Tis well. We have no room for children here. Come
in, come in," he added snappishly.

Obeying an invitation given in none too warm a tone, St. Georges
stepped th