“However, as no one had been seen to bring these two rouleaux of gold back,” continued the ensign, “it is supposed that they had been handed to the prince by the two travelers who, having met and recognized his highness on the banks of the river, had announced the intelligence of Aurilly’s death.”

“It is very strange,” murmured Henri.

“And what is more strange still,” continued the ensign, “is, that it is said—­can it be true, or is it merely an invention?—­it is said, I repeat, that the prince was seen to open the little gate of the park close to the chestnut trees, and that something like two shadows passed through that same gate.  The prince then introduced two persons into the park—­probably the two travelers; it is since that occasion that the prince has retired into his pavilion, and we have only been able to see him by stealth.”

“And has no one seen these two travelers?” asked Henri.

“As I was proceeding to ask the prince the password for the night, for the sentinels on duty at the chateau, I met a man who did not seem to me to belong to his highness’s household, but I was unable to observe his face, the man having turned aside as soon as he perceived me, and having let down the hood of his cloak over his eyes.”

“The hood of his cloak, do you say?”

“Yes; the man looked like a Flemish peasant, and reminded me, I hardly know why, of the person by whom you were accompanied when we met out yonder.”

Henri started; the observation seemed to him in some way connected with the profound and absorbing interest with which the story inspired him; to him, too, who had seen Diana and her companion confided to Aurilly, the idea occurred that the two travelers who had announced to the prince the death of the unfortunate lute-player were acquaintances of his own.

Henri looked attentively at the ensign.

“And when you fancied you recognized this man, what was the idea that occurred to you, monsieur?” he inquired.

“I will tell you what my impression was,” replied the ensign; “however, I will not pretend to assert anything positively; the prince has not, in all probability, abandoned all idea with regard to Flanders; he therefore maintains spies in his employ.  The man with the woolen overcoat is a spy, who, on his way here, may possibly have learned the accident which had happened to the musician, and may thus have been the bearer of two pieces of intelligence at the same time.”

“That is not improbable,” said Henri, thoughtfully; “but what was this man doing when you saw him?”

“He was walking beside the hedge which borders the parterre—­you can see the hedge from your windows—­and was making toward the conservatories.”

“You say, then, that the two travelers, for I believe you stated there were two—­”

“Others say that two persons were seen to enter, but I only saw one, the man in the overcoat.”