St. Crois’s boyish face and fair hair arrested her attention, as I had expected.  Her expression grew softer, and she murmured, “Poor boy!”

I caught at the opportunity.  “We do but seek a passage through your room,” I said fervently.  Good heavens, what had we not at stake!  What if she should remain obdurate?  “We are in trouble —­in despair,” I panted.  “So, I believe, are you.  We will help you if you will first save us.  We are boys, but we can fight for you.”

“Whom am I to trust?” she exclaimed, with a shudder.  “But heaven forbid,” she continued, her eyes on Croisette’s face, “that, wanting help, I should refuse to give it.  Come in, if you will.”

I poured out my thanks, and had forced my head between the bars —­at imminent risk of its remaining there—­before the words were well out of her mouth.  But to enter was no easy task after all.  Croisette did, indeed, squeeze through at last, and then by force pulled first one and then the other of us after him.  But only necessity and that chasm behind could have nerved us, I think, to go through a process so painful.  When I stood, at length on the floor, I seemed to be one great abrasion from head to foot.  And before a lady, too!

But what a joy I felt, nevertheless.  A fig for Bezers now.  He had called us boys; and we were boys.  But he should yet find that we could thwart him.  It could be scarcely half-an-hour after midnight; we might still be in time.  I stretched myself and trod the level door jubilantly, and then noticed, while doing so, that our hostess had retreated to the door and was eyeing us timidly—­half-scared.

I advanced to her with my lowest bow—­sadly missing my sword.  “Madame,” I said, “I am M. Anne de Caylus, and these are my brothers.  And we are at your service.”

“And I,” she replied, smiling faintly—­I do not know why—­“am Madame de Pavannes, I gratefully accept your offers of service.”

“De Pavannes?” I exclaimed, amazed and overjoyed.  Madame de Pavannes!  Why, she must be Louis’ kinswoman!  No doubt she could tell us where he was lodged, and so rid our task of half its difficulty.  Could anything have fallen out more happily?  “You know then M. Louis de Pavannes?” I continued eagerly.

“Certainly,” she answered, smiling with a rare shy sweetness this time.  “Very well indeed.  He is my husband.”

CHAPTER V.

A priest and A woman.

“He is my husband!”

The statement was made in the purest innocence; yet never, as may well be imagined, did words fall with more stunning force.  Not one of us answered or, I believe, moved so much as a limb or an eyelid.  We only stared, wanting time to take in the astonishing meaning of the words, and then more time to think what they meant to us in particular.