I had no desire to speak so long as the flow of old Jacques’s best Burgundy continued; but when he saw my eyes wide open, he stopped, and I said, my voice, to my surprise, very faint and quavery: 

“What happened?”

“Dear, brave lad!  You fainted!”

My lord’s voice was as unsteady as mine.

“But the ladder?” I murmured.

“The ladder broke.  But you had hold beyond the break.  You hung on till we seized you.  And then you swooned.”

“What a baby!” I said, getting to my feet.  “But the men, monsieur?  Peyrot?”

“I think we’ve seen the last of those worthies.  They took to their heels when you escaped them.”

“But, monsieur, they’ve gone to inform!  You’ll be taken for killing Lucas.”

“I doubt it.  Themselves smell too strong of blood to dare bruit the matter.  Natheless, if you can walk now, we’ll make good time to the gate.”

But for all his haste, he would not start till I had had some bread and soup down in the kitchen.

“We must take good care of you, boy Felix,” he said.  “For where the St. Quentins would be without you, I tremble to think.”

I set out a new man.  In three steps, it seemed to me, we had reached the city gate, to find the way blocked by a company of twenty or thirty horse, the St. Quentin uniform flaunting gay in the sun.  The nearest trooper set up a shout at sight of us, when Vigo, coming out suddenly from behind a nag, took M. le Comte in his big embrace.  He released him immediately, looking immensely startled at his own demonstration.

M. Etienne laughed out at him.

“Be more careful, I beg you, Vigo!  You will make me imagine myself of some importance.”

“I thought you swallowed up,” Vigo growled.  “You had been here—­I couldn’t get a trace of you.”

“I was killing Lucas.”

“Sacre!  He’s dead?”

“Dead.”

“That’s the best morning’s work ever you did, M. Etienne.”

“Have you horse for us, Vigo?”

“Of course.  Some of the men will walk.  I suppose we’re leaving Paris to buy you out of the Bastille?”

“Not worth it, eh, Vigo?”

“Yes,” said Vigo, gravely—­“yes, M. Etienne.  You are worth it.”

Vigo’s troop was but slow-moving, as some of the horses carried double, some were loaded with chattels.  M. Etienne and I, on the duke’s blood-chargers, soon left the cavalcade behind us.  Before I knew it, we were halted at the outpost of the camp.  My lord gave his name.

“To be sure!” cried the sentry.  “We’ve orders about you.  You dine with the king, M. de Mar.”

“Mordieu!  I do?”

“You do.  Orders are to take you to him out of hand.  Captain!”

The officer lounged out of the tavern door.

“Captain, M. de Mar.”

“Oh, aye!” cried the captain, coming forward with brisk interest.  “M. de Mar, you’re the child of luck.  You dine with the king.”