When Pere Lenegre opened the narrow door, the entire framework of it was filled by the broad, magnificent figure of a man in heavy caped coat and high leather boots, with dainty frills of lace at throat and wrist, and elegant chapeau-bras held in the hand.

Pere Lenegre at sight of him, put a quick finger to his own quivering lips.

“Anything wrong, vieux papa?” asked the newcomer lightly.

The other closed the door cautiously before he made reply.  But petite maman could not restrain her anxiety.

“My little Pierre, milor?” she asked as she clasped her wrinkled hands together, and turned on the stranger her tear-dimmed restless eyes.

“Pierre is safe and well, little mother,” he replied cheerily.  “We got him out of Paris early this morning in a coal cart, carefully hidden among the sacks.  When he emerged he was black but safe.  I drove the cart myself as far as Courbevoie, and there handed over your Pierre and those whom we got out of Paris with him to those of my friends who were going straight to England.  There’s nothing more to be afraid of, petite maman,” he added as he took the old woman’s wrinkled hands in both his own; “your son is now under the care of men who would die rather than see him captured.  So make your mind at ease, Pierre will be in England, safe and well, within a week.”

Petite maman couldn’t say anything just then because tears were choking her, but in her turn she clasped those two strong and slender hands—­the hands of the brave Englishman who had just risked his life in order to save Pierre from the guillotine—­and she kissed them as fervently as she kissed the feet of the Madonna when she knelt before her shrine in prayer.

Pierre had been a footman in the household of unhappy Marie Antoinette.  His crime had been that he remained loyal to her in words as well as in thought.  A hot-headed but nobly outspoken harangue on behalf of the unfortunate queen, delivered in a public place, had at once marked him out to the spies of the Terrorists as suspect of intrigue against the safety of the Republic.  He was denounced to the Committee of Public Safety, and his arrest and condemnation to the guillotine would have inevitably followed had not the gallant band of Englishmen, known as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, succeeded in effecting his escape.

What wonder that petite maman could not speak for tears when she clasped the hands of the noble leader of that splendid little band of heroes?  What wonder that Pere Lenegre, when he heard that his son was safe murmured a fervent:  “God bless you, milor, and your friends!” and that Rosette surreptitiously raised the fine caped coat to her lips, for Pierre was her twin-brother, and she loved him very dearly.

But already Sir Percy Blakeney had, with one of his characteristic cheery words, dissipated the atmosphere of tearful emotion which oppressed these kindly folk.