De Lescure had not time to question the Chevalier, or to express his surprise, before Henri was seen coming down the street on horseback, almost at full gallop, and at his right hand rode a man, whom they did not all immediately recognize.  Agatha, however, knew at the first glance who the stranger was, and with an instinctive feeling that the sight of her would be painful to him, she retreated behind her father’s couch, so that he could not well see her from the street.  When Chapeau had first whispered into his master’s ear the name of Adolphe Denot as the leader of the Bretons, Agatha had truly guessed the purport of his whisper; and it cannot, therefore, be said that she was startled to see Adolphe once more by her brother’s side; but still she could not but shudder as she remembered the circumstances under which she had last seen him, and the inhuman crime of which he had been guilty.

Henri rode a little in advance, and as he passed, he merely turned his laughing face towards his friends, and kissed his hand to the window.  Denot, till he was nearly close to the house, had not thought of the neighbourhood he was in; nor had he the least idea that any but the usual inhabitants of the town were looking down on him, till his wandering eyes fell full upon the faces of Marie and Madame de Lescure, who were standing close to the open window.  Immediately the blood rushed to his face, and suffused it almost with a purple red:  he checked his horse suddenly, and, for a moment, looked full up at the window, where he met the cold gaze of de Lescure fixed full upon him.  The pause was but for a moment; he could not bear the ordeal of that look, but fixing his eyes to the ground, he struck his spurs into his horse, and hurried out of the sight of those on whom he did not dare to turn his face.

“Agatha, my love, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, who was that?” said the Marquis, rubbing his eyes, before which an Unearthly apparition seemed to have appeared.  “Who was that that rode by with Henri? only that I know it is impossible, I should have said that it was Adolphe Denot.”

“It is Adolphe, Sir,” said Arthur Mondyon; “it is he that is the Mad Captain, who has been knocking the blues about in such a wonderful manner.  I suppose he got tired of Santerre, or Santerre of him.  I thought they wouldn’t agree long together.”

“Arthur!” said Agatha, “you should speak kindly of him now; don’t you see that Henri has forgiven him; if he can forgive him, surely you ought to do so.”

“And is it really true that Henri and Adolphe Denot are again friends?” said the Marquis, speaking rather to himself than to any one else.  “Well, I should have thought that would have been impossible.  If Henri can forgive him, we all ought to do so too; but—­but—­but I do not think that I could feel at ease if he were in the room with me.”

“I do not think he will come to us, father,” said Agatha.  “Did you not observe his face as he passed? the very sight of us seemed to cut him to the heart.”