to come this way;
there is one of these gentlemen asking for you."

A thunderbolt falling in the midst of them would not have produced a
more terrible effect upon the four gentlemen than did this name.

"What did you say?" cried Pontcalec, shaking with affright; "what did
you say? What name did you pronounce?"

"Waters, our chief."

Pontcalec, pale and overcome, sank upon a chair, casting an unutterable
glance upon his affrighted companions. No one around them understood
this sudden despair, which so rapidly succeeded to so high a confidence.

"Well?" asked Montlouis, addressing Pontcalec in a tone of tender
reproach.

"Yes, gentlemen, you were right," said Pontcalec; "but I also was right
to believe in this prediction, for it will be accomplished, as the
others were. Only this time I yield, and confess that we are lost."

And by a spontaneous movement the four gentlemen threw themselves into
each other's arms with fervent prayers to Heaven.

"What do you order?" asked the executioner.

"It is useless to tie their hands if they will give their words of
honor; they are soldiers and gentlemen."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE TRAGEDY OF NANTES.

Meanwhile Gaston posted along the road to Nantes, leaving behind him all
postilions, whose place, then as now, was to hold the horses instead of
urging them on.

He had already passed Sevres and Versailles, and on arriving at
Rambouillet just at daybreak, he saw the innkeeper and some postilions
gathered round a horse which had just been bled. The horse was lying
stretched on its side, in the middle of the street, breathing with
difficulty.

Gaston at first paid no attention to all this; but as he was mounting
himself, he heard one of the by-standers say:

"If he goes on at that pace he will kill more than one between this and
Nantes."

Gaston was on the point of starting, but struck by a sudden and terrible
idea, he stopped and signed to the innkeeper to come to him.

The innkeeper approached.

"Who has passed by here?" asked Gaston, "going at such a pace as to have
put that poor animal in such a state?"

"A courier of the minister's," answered the innkeeper.

"A courier of the minister's!" exclaimed Gaston, "and coming from
Paris?"

"From Paris."

"How long has he passed, more or less?"

"About two hours."

Gaston uttered a low cry which was like a groan. He knew Dubois--Dubois,
who had tricked him under the disguise of La Jonquiere. The good will