e, not of
Etienne de Mar."

"The name of Etienne de Mar will do," the captain returned; "we have no
fancy for aliases at the Bastille."

"It is a plot!" Lucas cried.

"It is a warrant; that is all I know about it"

"But I am not Comte de Mar," Lucas repeated.

His uneasy conscience had numbed his wits. In his dread of a plot he had
done little to dissipate an error. But now he pulled himself together;
error or intention, he would act as if he knew it must be error.

"My captain, you have made a mistake likely to cost you your
shoulder-straps. I tell you I am not Mar; the landlord, who knows him
well, tells you I am not Mar. Ask those who know M. de Mar; ask these
inn people. They will one and all tell you I am not he. Ask that boy
there; even he dares not say to my face that I am."

His eyes met mine, and I could see that, even in the moment of
challenging me, he repented. He believed that I would give the lie. But
the dragoon who was bending over him, relieving him of his sword-belt,
spared me the necessity.

"Captain, you need give yourself no uneasiness; this is the Comte right
enough. I live in the Quartier Marais, and I have seen this gentleman a
score of times riding with M. de St. Quentin."

Lucas, at this unexpected testimony, looked so taken aback that the
captain burst out laughing.

"Yes, my dear monsieur, it is a little hard for M. de Mayenne's
nephew--you are a nephew, are you not?--to explain how he comes to ride
with the Duc de St. Quentin."

It was awkward to explain. Lucas, knowing well that there was no future
for him who betrayed the Generalissimo's secrets, cried out angrily:

"He lies! I never rode out with M. de St. Quentin."

"Oh, come now. Really you waste a great deal of breath," the captain
said. "I regret the cruel necessity of arresting you, M. de Mar; but
there is nothing gained by blustering about it. I usually know what I am
about."

"You do not know! Nom de dieu, you do not know. Felix Broux, speak up
there. If you have told him behind my back that I am Etienne de Mar, I
defy you to say it to my face."

"I know nothing about it, messieurs." I repeated my little refrain.
"Monsieur captain, remember, if you please, I never saw him till
yesterday; he may be Paul de Lorraine for all I know. But he did not
call himself that yesterday."

"You hell-hound!" Lucas cried.

"Go tell Louis to drive up to the cabaret door, Gaspard," bade the
captain.

Lucas gazed at him as if