“Eh bien, I am found,” M. Etienne returned.  “In time we’ll get Lucas, too.  Is Monsieur back?”

“No, M. Etienne, not yet.”

I think he was half sorry, half glad.

“Where’s Vigo?” he demanded.

“Somewhere about.  I’ll find him for monsieur.”

“No, stay at your post.  I’ll find him.”

He went straight across the court and in at the door he had sworn never again to darken.  Humility and repentance might have brought him there, but it was the hand of mademoiselle drew him over the threshold without a falter.

Alone in the hall was my little friend Marcel, throwing dice against himself to while the time away.  He sprang up at sight of us, agleam with excitement.

“Well, Marcel,” my master said, “and where is M. l’Ecuyer?”

“I think in the stables, monsieur.”

“Bid him come to me in the small cabinet.”

He turned with accustomed feet into the room at the end of the hall where Vigo kept the rolls of the guard.  I, knowing it to be my duty to keep close at hand lest I be wanted, followed.  Soon Marcel came flying back to say Vigo was on his way.  M. Etienne thanked him, and he hung about, longing to pump me, and, in my lord’s presence, not quite daring, till I took him by the shoulders and turned him out.  I hate curiosity.

M. Etienne stood behind the table, looking his haughtiest.  He was unsure of a welcome from the contumacious Vigo; I read in his eyes a stern determination to set this insolent servant in his place.

The big man entered, saluted, came straight over to his young lord’s side, no whit hesitating, and said, as heartily as if there had never been a hard word between them: 

“M.  Etienne, I had liefer see you stand here than the king himself.”

M. Etienne displayed the funniest face of bafflement.  He had been prepared to lash rudeness or sullenness, to accept, de haut en bas, shamed contrition.  But this easy cordiality took the wind out of his sails.  He stared, and then flushed, and then laughed.  And then he held out his hand, saying simply: 

“Thank you, Vigo.”

Vigo bent over to kiss it in cheerful ignorance of how that hand had itched to box his ears.

“What became of you last night, M. Etienne?” he inquired.

“I was hunting Lucas.  When does Monsieur return, Vigo?”

“He thought he might be back to-day.  But he could not tell.”

“Have you sent to tell him about me?” he asked, colouring.

“No, I couldn’t do that,” Vigo said.  “You see, it is quite on the cards that the Spanish gang may come hither to clean us out.  I want every man I have if they do.”

“I understand that,” M. Etienne said, “but—­”

“So long as you are innocent a day or two matters not,” Vigo pronounced.  “He will presently turn up here or send word that he will not return till the king comes in.  But since you are impatient, M. le Comte, you can go to him at St. Denis.  If he can get through the gates you can.”