into the faint light of the open road without wondering thanks to the saints—­silent thanks, for we never spoke a word of any fear, Gilles and I. I trow mademoiselle knew well enough, but she spoke no word either.  She never faltered, never showed by so much as the turn of her head that she suspected any danger, but, eyes on the distant lights of St. Denis, walked straight along, half a step ahead of us all the way.  Stride as we might, we two strong fellows could never quite keep up with her.

The journey could not at such pace stretch out forever.  Presently the distant lights were no longer distant, but near, nearer, close at hand—­the lights of the outposts of the camp.  A sentinel started out from the quoin of a wall to stop us, but when we had told our errand he became as friendly as a brother.  He went across the road into a neighbouring tournebride to report to the officer of the guard, and came back presently with a torch and the order to take us to the Duke of St. Quentin’s lodging.

It was near an hour after midnight, and St. Denis was in bed.  Save for a drowsy patrol here and there, we met no one.  Fewer than the patrols were the lanterns hung on ropes across the streets; these were the only lights, for the houses were one and all as dark as tombs.  Not till we had reached the middle of the town did we see, in the second story of a house in the square, a beam of light shining through the shutter-chink.

“Some one in mischief.”  Gilles pointed.

“Aye,” laughed the sentry, “your duke.  This is where he lodges, over the saddler’s.”

He knocked with the butt of his musket on the door.  The shutter above creaked open, and a voice—­Monsieur’s voice—­asked, “Who’s there?”

Mademoiselle was concealed in the embrasure of the doorway; Gilles and I stepped back into the street where Monsieur could see us.

“Gilles Forestier and Felix Broux, Monsieur, just from Paris, with news.”

“Wait.”

“Is it all right, M. le Duc?” the sentry asked, saluting.

“Yes,” Monsieur answered, closing the shutter.

The soldier, with another salute to the blank window, and a nod of “Good-by, then,” to us, went back to his post.  Left in darkness, we presently heard Monsieur’s quick step on the flags of the hall, and the clatter of the bolts.  He opened to us, standing there fully dressed, with a guttering candle.

“My son?” he said instantly.

Mademoiselle, crouching in the shadow of the door-post, pushed me forward.  I saw I was to tell him.

“Monsieur, he was arrested and driven to the Bastille to-night between seven and eight.  Lucas—­Paul de Lorraine—­went to the governor and swore that M. Etienne killed the lackey Pontou in the house in the Rue Coupejarrets.  It was Lucas killed him—­Lucas told Mayenne so.  Mlle. de Montluc heard him, too.  And here is mademoiselle.”

At the word she came out of the shadow and slowly over the threshold.