east is
clear. I am bound in honor to go on this hound's errand, and to see that
these papers reach the _Jean Bart_."

"You are right," said Schmidt; "entirely right. But you must not be seen
here. Find your way through the woods, and when it is dark--in an hour
it will be night--ride through Bristol to Trenton, cross the river there
at the ferry. No one will be out of doors in Trenton or Bristol on a
night like this. Listen to the wind! Now go. When you are in New York,
see Mr. Nicholas Gouverneur in Beaver Street. At need, tell him the
whole story; but not if you can help it. Here is money, but not enough.
He will provide what you require. Come back through the Jerseys, and
cross at Camden. I shall secure help here, go to town, get a doctor, and
return. I must talk to this man if he lives, else he will lie about
you."

"You will excuse me to the Secretary?"

"Yes; yes, of course. Now go. These people at the inn must not see you."

He watched him ride away into the wood. "It is a sorry business," he
said as he knelt down to give the fallen man brandy from the flask he
found in his saddle-bag.

Within an hour Carteaux, still insensible, was at Bisanet's Inn, a
neighboring doctor found, and that good Samaritan Schmidt, after a fine
tale of highwaymen, was in the saddle and away to town, leaving Carteaux
delirious.

He went at once to the house of Chovet and found him at home. It was
essential to have some one who could talk French.

"At your service," said the doctor.

"Why the devil did you send De Courval after Carteaux this morning?"

"I never meant to."

"But you did. You have made no end of mischief. Now listen. I need you
because you speak French. Can you hold your tongue, if to hold it means
money? Oh, a good deal. If you breathe a word of what you hear or see, I
will half-kill you."

"Oh, Monsieur, I am the soul of honor."

"Indeed. Why, then, does it trouble you? Owing to your damned
mischief-making, De Courval has shot Carteaux. You are to go to the inn,
Bisanet's, near Bristol, to-night, and as often afterward as is needed.
I shall pay, and generously, if he does not--but, remember, no one is to
know. A highwayman shot him. Do you understand? I found him on the road,
wounded."

"Yes; but it is late."

"You go at once."

"I go, Monsieur."

Then Schmidt went home, and ingeniously accounted to Madame, and in a
note to Randolph, for Rene's absence in New York.

As he sat alone that night he