“I have told Monsieur Bellievre what I think, and asked his advice.  But still, I cannot return without the Admiral’s commands.”

The next morning Jacques came early to my room before I had risen.  “Monsieur,” he said, “will you get up?  A strange thing has happened.”

“A strange thing?” I repeated, springing from the bed.

“A man has been slain—­at least I believe the poor fellow is dead—­on the highroad.  Urie found him; he was not dead then, and had sufficient strength to whisper your name.  Urie declares that he said quite distinctly, ‘Monsieur Le Blanc!’ so he had him brought here.”

“Do we know him?” I asked, now thoroughly roused.

“He is a stranger to me.  I have never seen him before, and he does not belong to these parts.  But one thing is certain:  he is no peaceable citizen.”

All this time I was hastily dressing, and now, filled with curiosity, I accompanied Jacques to the room where the wounded man lay.  He was a sturdy-looking fellow, in the prime of life, tough, wiry, and with muscles well developed by exercise.  His dress was that of an ordinary trooper; he wore a long knife at his girdle, and Urie had placed his sword, which was broken and stained with blood, by his side.  The mark of an old scar disfigured his left cheek, and his chest showed that he had been wounded more than once in his life.  Jacques was certainly right in saying he was no peaceable citizen.

Urie had fetched the cure, who had bandaged his hurts, but the worthy priest shook his head at me as if to say, “There was really little use in doing it.”

“Foul work!” I exclaimed; “the man must have made a desperate struggle for life.  Where did you find him, Urie?”

“Just outside the little wood, monsieur.  The ground all around was ploughed up by horses’ hoofs, and stained with blood.  I should say he was attacked by at least three horsemen.  I thought he was dead, but when I bent over him he was muttering ‘Monsieur Le Blanc’”

“Did he seem sensible?”

“I asked him several questions, but he did not reply, except to repeat monsieur’s name, so I had him brought here.”

“It is very strange,” I said; “he is a perfect stranger; I have never seen him before.  Why should he mention my name?  Is it possible for him to recover?”

“Quite impossible, my son,” exclaimed the cure; “he is dying fast; no surgeon could do anything for him.  The wonder is that he has lived so long.  He has been fearfully hurt.”

“Did you meet no strange persons in the village?” I asked Urie.

“Not a soul, monsieur.  It was very early; the villagers were not yet about, and the road was empty.”

The wounded man groaned, and the cure partly raised his head, when he seemed more comfortable.  His eyes were closed, and his breath came in quick gasps; the shadow of death was stealing across his face.  Would he have strength to speak before he died?  It was unlikely.