s a stranger, this fellow, and only here by chance. Now
lead the other to the carriage, and we shall get away before an alarm is
given."

The two horsemen rode off in pursuit of the fugitive, and De Catinat,
still struggling desperately to escape, was dragged down the St. Germain
road and thrust into the carriage, which had waited at some distance
while these incidents were being enacted. Three of the horsemen rode
ahead, the coachman was curtly ordered to follow them, and De Vivonne,
having despatched one of the band with a note to his sister, followed
after the coach with the remainder of his desperadoes.

The unfortunate guardsman had now entirely recovered his senses, and
found himself with a strap round his ankles, and another round his
wrists, a captive inside a moving prison which lumbered heavily along
the country road. He had been stunned by the shock of his fall, and his
leg was badly bruised by the weight of his horse; but the cut on his
forehead was a mere trifle, and the bleeding had already ceased.
His mind, however, pained him more than his body. He sank his head into
his pinioned hands, and stamped madly with his feet, rocking himself to
and fro in his despair. What a fool, a treble fool, he had been!
He, an old soldier, who had seen something of war, to walk with open
eyes into such a trap! The king had chosen him of all men, as a trusty
messenger, and yet he had failed him--and failed him so ignominiously,
without shot fired or sword drawn. He was warned, too, warned by a
young man who knew nothing of court intrigue, and who was guided only by
the wits which Nature had given him. De Catinat dashed himself down
upon the leather cushion in the agony of his thoughts.

But then came a return of that common-sense which lies so very closely
beneath the impetuosity of the Celt. The matter was done now, and he
must see if it could not be mended. Amos Green had escaped. That was
one grand point in his favour. And Amos Green had heard the king's
message, and realised its importance. It was true that he knew nothing
of Paris, but surely a man who could pick his way at night through the
forests of Maine would not be baulked in finding so well-known a house
as that of the Archbishop of Paris. But then there came a sudden
thought which turned De Catinat's heart to lead. The city gates were
locked at eight o'clock in the evening. It was now nearly nine. It
would have been easy for him, whose unifor