ughed and laughed.

"Felix," he gasped, "you had your sport over there at the inn. But I
have seen nothing this summer as funny as _your_ face."

Vigo came back with a sword and baldric for me, and a horse-pistol
besides, but M. Etienne would not let me have it.

"Circumstances are such, Vigo, that I want no noisy weapons."

The equery regarded him with a troubled countenance.

"I wish I knew, monsieur, whether I do right to let you go."

"We will not discuss that, an it please you."

"I do not, monsieur. I have no right to curtail M. le Comte's liberties.
But I let you go with a heavy heart."

He looked after us with foreboding eyes as we went out of the great
gate, alone, with not so much as a linkboy. But if his heart was heavy,
our hearts were light. We paced along as merrily as though to a feast.
M. Etienne hung his lute over his neck and strummed it; and whenever we
passed under a window whence leaned a pretty head, he sang snatches of
love-songs. We were alone in the dark streets of a hostile city, bound
for the house of a mighty foe; and one of us was wounded and one a tyro.
Yet we laughed as we went; for there was Lucas languishing in prison,
and here were we, free as air, steering our course for mademoiselle's
window. One of us was in love, and the other wore a sword for the first
time, and all the power of Mayenne daunted us not.

We came at length within bow-shot of the Hotel de Lorraine, where M.
Etienne was willing to abate somewhat his swagger. We left the Rue St.
Antoine, creeping around behind the house through a narrow and twisting
alley--it was pitch-black, but he knew the way well--into a little
street dim-lighted from the windows of the houses upon it. It was only a
few rods long, running from the open square in front of the hotel to the
network of unpaved alleys behind. On the farther side stood a row of
high-gabled houses, their doors opening directly on the pavement; on
this side was but one big pile, the Hotel de Lorraine. The wall was
broken by few windows, most of them dark; this was not the gay side of
the house. The overhanging turret on the low second story, under which
M. Etienne halted, was as dark as the rest, nor, though the casement was
open wide, could we tell whether any one was in the room. We could hear
nothing but the breeze crackling in the silken curtains.

"Take your station at the corner there," he bade, "and shout if they
seem to be coming for us. But I think we sha