We began to talk, speaking in low tones that we might not disturb him.  The attack on Coligny had, if true, its bearing on our own business.  For if a Huguenot so great and famous and enjoying the king’s special favour still went in Paris in danger of his life, what must be the risk that such an one as Pavannes ran?  We had hoped to find the city quiet.  If instead it should be in a state of turmoil Bezers’ chances were so much the better; and ours —­and Kit’s, poor Kit’s—­so much the worse.

Our companion had by this time finished his supper.  But he still sat at table, and seemed to be regarding us with some curiosity.  At length he spoke.  “Are you going to Paris, young gentlemen?” he asked, his tone harsh and high-pitched.

We answered in the affirmative.  “To-morrow?” he questioned.

“Yes,” we answered; and expected him to continue the conversation.  But instead he became silent, gazing abstractedly at the table; and what with our meal, and our own talk we had almost forgotten him again, when looking up, I found him at my elbow, holding out in silence a small piece of paper.

I started his face was so grave.  But seeing that there were half-a-dozen guests of a meaner sort at another table close by, I guessed that he merely wished to make a private communication to us; and hastened to take the paper and read it.  It contained a scrawl of four words only—­

  “Va chasser l’Idole.”

No more.  I looked at him puzzled; able to make nothing out of it.  St. Croix wrinkled his brow over it with the same result.  It was no good handing it to Marie, therefore.

“You do not understand?” the stranger continued, as he put the scrap of paper back in his pouch.

“No,” I answered, shaking my head.  We had all risen out of respect to him, and were standing a little group about him.

“Just so; it is all right then,” he answered, looking at us as it seemed to me with grave good-nature.  “It is nothing.  Go your way.  But—­I have a son yonder not much younger than you, young gentlemen.  And if you had understood, I should have said to you, ‘Do not go!  There are enough sheep for the shearer!’”

He was turning away with this oracular saying when Croisette touched his sleeve.  “Pray can you tell us if it be true,” the lad said eagerly, “that the Admiral de Coligny was wounded yesterday?”

“It is true,” the other answered, turning his grave eyes on his questioner, while for a moment his stern look failed him, “It is true, my boy,” he added with an air of strange solemnity.  “Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.  And, God forgive me for saying it, whom He would destroy, He first maketh mad.”

He had gazed with peculiar favour at Croisette’s girlish face, I thought:  Marie and I were dark and ugly by the side of the boy.  But he turned from him now with a queer, excited gesture, thumping his gold-headed cane on the floor.  He called his servants in a loud, rasping voice, and left the room in seeming anger, driving them before him, the one carrying his dag, and the other, two candles.