is back was not bared to the lashings of the
_comites_!--that he had slaved at the galley oar in summer and been
put to road-mending and road-sweeping in the winter, and that he
nourished against France a deep revenge. And among them was the king
himself.

Rooke had told William his history, over long clay pipes and tankards
at Hampton Court, and the astute Dutchman had not hesitated a moment
in promising him employment--would, indeed, have taken a hundred such
into that employ if he could have found them. He had learned how the
exile hated France--as he did himself, his hatred being the mainspring
of his life; moreover, that exile knew more about Louis's regiments
and whole military system than almost any one else whom the English
king could discover. That was sufficient for him.

So St. Georges went on his way, waiting--waiting ever for one of two
things to occur: either that the marine regiment should call for
volunteers and be sent out again to France, or that he should be able
to return disguised to that country and recommence his search for
Dorine.

During the period that had elapsed, however, since he was rescued by
Rooke, one thing had happened that had brought great happiness to his
heart: he had heard more than once from Boussac, now a lieutenant of
the Mousquetaires Noirs, and in so hearing had gained news of his
child, who was still alive, and, as Boussac believed, well treated.

"_Mon pauvre ami_," that gallant officer had written, in reply to a
letter forwarded him by St. Georges and addressed to Paris, where he
imagined the Mousquetaires might be, "how shall I answer yours, since,
when I received it, I had long deemed you dead? Ah! monsieur, I was
desolated when we came into Paris at the tidings I gleaned. I sought
for you at once, inquired at the Bureau Militaire, and learned--what?
That you had threatened to murder the minister--had, indeed, almost
murdered the Marquis de Roquemaure; and that for this you were
condemned to the galley L'Idole, _en perpetuite_. Figure to yourself
my dismay--nay, more, my most touching grief--for, my friend, I had
news for you of the best, the most important. And I could not deliver
it, should never now deliver it to you in this world. Monsieur, I had
the news to give you that I had seen your child--had seen it well,
and, as I think, not unhappy."

It was St. Georges's habit to sit sometimes in the little, old city
churchyard beneath his window, and there to muse on