Then mark—­a most curious thing—­the extreme youth of those who were in this business.  France, subject to the Queen-Mother, of course, was ruled at the time by boys scarce out of their tutors’ hands.  They were mere lads, hot-blooded, reckless nobles, ready for any wild brawl, without forethought or prudence.  Of the four Frenchmen who it is thought took the leading parts, one, the king, was twenty-two; Monsieur, his brother, was only twenty; the Duke of Guise was twenty-one.  Only the Marshal de Tavannes was of mature age.  For the other conspirators, for the Queen-Mother, for her advisers Retz and Nevers and Birague, they were Italians; and Italy may answer for them if Florence, Mantua and Milan care to raise the glove.

To return to our journey.  A league from the town we halted at a large inn, and some of us dismounted.  Horses were brought out to fill the places of those lost or left behind, and Bure had food served to us.  We were famished and exhausted, and ate it ravenously, as if we could never have enough.

The Vidame sat his horse apart, served by his page, I stole a glance at him, and it struck me that even on his iron nature the events of the night had made some impression.  I read, or thought I read, in his countenance, signs of emotions not quite in accordance with what I knew of him—­emotions strange and varied.  I could almost have sworn that as he looked at us a flicker of kindliness lit up his stern and cruel gloom; I could almost have sworn he smiled with a curious sadness.  As for Louis, riding with a squad who stood in a different part of the yard, he did not see us; had not yet seen us at all.  His side face, turned towards me, was pale and sad, his manner preoccupied, his mien rather sorrowful than downcast.  He was thinking, I judged, as much of the many brave men who had yesterday been his friends—­ companions at board and play-table—­as of his own fate.  When we presently, at a signal from Bure, took to the road again, I asked no permission, but thrusting my horse forward, rode to his side as he passed through the gateway.

CHAPTER XI.

A night of sorrow.

“Louis!  Louis!”

He turned with a start at the sound of my voice, joy and bewilderment—­and no wonder—­in his countenance.  He had not supposed us to be within a hundred leagues of him.  And lo! here we were, knee to knee, hand meeting hand in a long grasp, while his eyes, to which tears sprang unbidden, dwelt on my face as though they could read in it the features of his sweetheart.  Some one had furnished him with a hat, and enabled him to put his dress in order, and wash his wound, which was very slight, and these changes had improved his appearance; so that the shadow of grief and despondency passing for a moment from him in the joy of seeing me, he looked once more his former self:  as he had looked in the old days at Caylus on his return from hawking, or from some boyish escapade among the hills.  Only, alas! he wore no sword.