enne's explanation, when of a sudden Lucas, who had
been stunned for the moment by the violent meeting of his head and the
tiles, began to pound and kick on the oratory door.

He was shouting as well. But the door closed with absolute tightness; it
had not even a keyhole. His cries came to us muffled and inarticulate.

"Corpo di Bacco!" M. Etienne exclaimed, with a face of childlike
surprise. "Some one is in a fine hurry to enter! Do you not let him in,
Sir Master of the Household?"

"I wonder who he's got there now," Pierre muttered to himself in
French, staring in puzzled wise at the door. Then he answered M. Etienne
with a laugh:

"No, my innocent; I do not let him in. It might cost me my neck to open
that door. Come along now. I must see you out and get back to my
trenchers."

We met not a soul on the stairs, every one, served or servants, being in
the supper-room. We passed the sentry without question, and round the
corner without hindrance. M. Etienne stopped to heave a sigh of
thanksgiving.

"I thought we were done for that time!" he panted. "Mordieu! another
scored off Lucas! Come, let us make good time home! 'Twere wise to be
inside our gates when he gets out of that closet."

We made good time, ever listening for the haro after us. But we heard it
not. We came unmolested up the street at the back, of the Hotel St.
Quentin, on our way to the postern. Monsieur took the key out of his
doublet, saying as we walked around the corner tower:

"Well, it appears we are safe at home."

"Yes, M. Etienne."

Even as I uttered the words, three men from the shadow of the wall
sprang out and seized us.

"This is he!" one cried. "M. le Comte de Mar, I have the pleasure of
taking you to the Bastille."

XXVII

_The countersign._

Instantly two more men came running from the postern arch. The five were
upon us like an avalanche. One pinned my arms while another gagged me.
Two held M. Etienne, a third stopping his mouth.

"Prettily done," quoth the leader. "Not a squeal! Morbleu! I wasn't
anxious to have old Vigo out disputing my rights."

M. Etienne's wrists were neatly trussed by this time. At a word from the
leader, our captors turned us about and marched us up the lane by
Mirabeau's garden, where Bernet's blood lay rusty on the stones. We
offered no resistance whatever; we should only have been prodded with a
sword-point for our pains. I made out, despite the thickening twilight,
the familiar unif