“And he will not give his name?”

“He says it is sufficient to tell you he is the writer of the letter from St. Jean d’Angely.”

“It is all right, Jacques.  Have the horse put in the stables, and bring the rider here.”

“Is it wise, monsieur?  One cannot be too careful in these days.”

“The man is a friend, Jacques, and will do me no harm.  You are getting fanciful.”

“Very good, monsieur,” said he stolidly, and turned away.

“The writer of the letter from St. Jean d’Angely,” I said.  “He must have come from Paris on purpose to see me!  What does he want?  Does he bring news?  What a dolt Jacques is!  Why is he so long?  Ah, they are coming!” and in my eagerness I hurried to the door.

My visitor was heavily cloaked and closely muffled, and he made no movement toward undoing his wrappings.

“Is it L’Estang?” I asked, at which he turned as if to remind me that my servant was present.

“You can trust Jacques as you would trust myself,” I said; “but come into my room, while he prepares some supper; you are wet; it is a wild night.”

“A terrible night, monsieur; I was glad to see the walls of your castle.”

Bidding Jacques see that a good meal was got ready, I led my visitor into my chamber, where he removed his hat and cloak, which I sent away to be dried I made him take off his boots, and gave him a change of clothing, for his own was soaked by the heavy rain.

“It is kind of you, monsieur,” he said, “but I must depart before morning.  I am supposed to be in Paris, and I cannot afford to be recognized here.”

“Still,” I said pleasantly, “you may as well be comfortable while you remain.  No one will see you but Jacques, and I would trust him with my life.  Join me when you are ready.”

Jacques had everything arranged so that there was no need for any one to enter the room, and at a sign from me he went out, though very reluctantly, being afraid apparently lest my unexpected visitor should have some evil design on my life.

L’Estang sat down to the table and ate and drank like a man who had fasted long.

“It is a curious situation, is it not?” said he presently.  “Here am I, in the service of Anjou, accepting the hospitality of one of Coligny’s attendants.  We ought really to be cutting each other’s throats!”

“There can be no question of strife between you and me, L’Estang.”

“No,” he said slowly, “I am too much in your debt.  I have not forgotten.”

“You repaid me at D’Angely, and now I fancy I shall be in your debt.  You have journeyed from Paris on purpose to see me!”

“To warn you of danger!”

“From Cordel?  He is my bitter enemy, and hates me, though I scarcely know why.”

“The reason is plain.  You are in his way, and baulk his plans.  He has been very useful to Monseigneur, and is deep in his secrets.”