t the murder of so helpless a
thing."

Also he knew, by now, that both De Roquemaure and Louvois must be
perfectly confident that not only was he practically dead but actually
so. The galley was gone--sunk; and of the few saved none had gone back
to France. And the other galleys--those which had chased the Dutch
merchantman--would take the news back; none would suppose that he and
a few more were still alive.

As he reflected on this month by month--while often his eyes would
rest now on the words before him, "It is well with the child"--another
light came at last to his mind: he saw that, almost without any
danger, he might return to Troyes. He was a dead man; none would be on
the watch for him.

"Return to Troyes!" he repeated. "Return to Troyes!" And starting
from his seat he walked hurriedly away after one more glance at the
consoling words. He would go at once, find the child, and then return
to England forever. Yes, he thought, he would do that. He had money
enough now to reach that city.

Excited by this determination, he strode toward his lodging,
determined to set out directly. Months had passed, no fresh volunteers
had been called for, and although he knew that Louis was massing
together a large number of troops in the north of France--with the
intention of once more attempting to put James II on the throne he had
fled from--nothing had yet been done. It seemed as if nothing would be
done beyond endeavouring to guard the shores of England from a French
invasion and securing suspected persons and sending forces to the
seacoast. But for himself he heard nothing from any source. Perhaps,
he mused, he was forgotten.

Yet as he entered his room he learned that the time had not yet come
for him to take that solitary and dangerous journey to France. There
was something else to be done first.

Lying on his table were two letters: one, with a great seal upon it,
from Admiral Rooke; the other, addressed to a firm of merchants in the
city, but with--since its arrival in London--St. Georges's name
written over theirs, from Boussac. He read the latter first; before
all else it was the child he thought of--then threw it down almost
with impatience. He looked eagerly for these letters; they were indeed
the anxiety of his life, and now that this had come it told him
nothing that he cared to hear.

Yet there was one piece of intelligence in the letter that once would
have interested him. The mousquetaire had seen Aur