floated out on the tranquil air, the snatches of
ribald songs, the raucous bursts of laughter, the clink of glasses, the
clank of steel, the rattle of dice, and the strange soldier oaths that
fell with every throw, and which to them must have sounded almost as
words of some foreign tongue.

Whilst I stood by my window, the landlord entered my room, and coming up
to me--

"Thank Heaven they are not housed at the Vigne d'Or," he said. "It will
take Maitre Bernard a week to rid his house of the stench of leather.
They are part of a stray company that is on its way to fight the
Spaniards," he informed me. "But methinks they will be forced to spend
two or three days at Blois; their horses are sadly jaded and will need
that rest before they can take the road again, thanks to the pace at
which their boy of an officer must have led them. There is a gentleman
with them who wears a mask. 'T is whispered that he is a prince of
the blood who has made a vow not to uncover his face until this war be
ended, in expiation of some sin committed in mad Paris."

I heard him in silence, and when he had done I thanked him for his
information. So! This was the story that the crafty St. Auban had spread
abroad to lull suspicion touching the real nature of their presence
until their horses should be fit to undertake the return journey to
Paris, or until he should have secured the person of M. de Canaples.

Towards eleven o'clock, as the lights in the hostelry opposite were
burning low, I descended, and made my way out into the now deserted
street. The troopers had apparently seen fit--or else been ordered--to
seek their beds, for the place had grown silent, and a servant was in
the act of making fast the door for the night. The porte-cochere was
half closed, and a man carrying a lantern was making fast the bolt,
whistling aimlessly to himself. Through the half of the door that was
yet open, I beheld a window from which the light fell upon a distant
corner of the courtyard.

I drew near the fellow with the lantern, in whom I recognised Rene, the
hostler, and as I approached he flashed the light upon my face; then
with a gasp--"M. de Luynes," he exclaimed, remembering me from the time
when I had lodged at the Lys de France, three months ago.

"Sh!" I whispered, pressing a louis d'or into his hand. "Whose window is
that, Rene?" And I pointed towards the light.

"That," he replied, "is the room of the lieutenant and the gentleman in
the ma