CHAPTER XXXII.

That nobleman, however, seemed to consider himself very secure. He had so recently almost bearded the lion in his den with impunity, he had with such reckless freedom gone from one part of France itself to another without being stopped, that he thought there would be little risk in approaching a remote and somewhat poorly-peopled frontier or passing over a small space of debatable ground. He did not know, or he forgot, that the keen eyes of the fearless and unscrupulous French minister had been opened to his proceedings; that Richelieu had assumed a more bold and stern course of policy than ever; that personal hatred—perhaps, as some assert, personal rivalry—rendered it necessary for the cardinal to know in order to frustrate the efforts of his magnificent though very inferior adversary on the British side of the channel; and that no price, no labor, no violence even, would be considered too much which would place the designs and operations of Buckingham before the cabinet of France. He rode gayly, therefore, on his way,—though, in order not to attract too much attention, he sent forward several of his English attendants by a different road to meet him at Metz, and kept with him only Mr. Oakingham, Edward Langdale, a valet, and the two blacksmiths, with an ordinary groom.

This little party, on the evening of a beautiful autumnal day, rode along with tired horses through the little wood of Mirecourt, issued forth upon the side of the dry calcareous hill to the west, and looked anxiously for some place of rest. No one was well acquainted with the road; the horses were heavy-laden, for each besides his rider carried a heavy valise and two bags in front; and the whole morning had been passed in going up and down hill through an arid and almost deserted country. Some scattered houses, and then a nice clean village and a small but neat country inn, all gathered together in a little dell shaded with trees, at length gladdened the eyes of the weary travellers; and Lord Montagu, as was his custom, applied himself to make his sojourn comfortable for the hour, leaving his followers to enjoy themselves as best they could. He laughed and joked with the pretty Lorrainese landlady as with her own hands she laid the table for his dinner; he took out a book from his valise, and, with his feet upon one chair and his body on another, rejoiced in the ease of a new position, and, when his dinner at last came, ate with moderation but good appetite, and called a glow of satisfaction into the cheek of his hostess by pronouncing it the best meal he had ever tasted.

In the mean time, Mr. Oakingham had taken some refreshments and gone to bed; the valet had remained in the room with his lord, to serve him at table; the blacksmiths and the groom had gone to the stable; and Edward Langdale seemed the only unquiet spirit of the party. He ate but little; he drank less; he sat down; he rose up; he went out several times, either to the front of the house or the back; he visited the stable three times; he made many inquiries of the people of the house regarding the neighborhood and its inhabitants; and at length, instead of retiring to bed, he leaned his arms upon a table and his head upon his arms, and apparently went to sleep. People came and went, but he did not move; one of the girls of the inn spoke to him, but he did not answer; and it was near eleven o'clock before he changed his position. At that hour he rose and walked quietly to the back door of the inn, which looked into the stable-yard. The moon was shining near the full, and two men were standing near the stables talking together earnestly. As soon as he appeared at the door, they went round to the back of the low wooden building; but Edward had caught sight of them, and he walked straight to the stable and looked in. Most of the tired horses were resting quietly in the stables; but one, though disencumbered of packs and burdens, was saddled and bridled and tied up to a pillar.

Edward examined the animal well, to make sure of whom it belonged to, then quietly re-entered the inn and went straight to the room of Lord Montagu. He knocked at the door, and Montagu's voice told him to come in.

"Ah, Ned!" said his lord, "I have not seen you to-night."

"No, my lord," replied the youth: "I have been watching some things which I dislike."

"A very unsatisfactory employment," said Lord Montagu. "But what is it, good youth? You look gloomy, and your face is full of meaning. Are the Philistines upon us?"

"I do not know, my lord," replied Edward; "but I fear they soon will be. I do not like those two blacksmiths, my lord. They are bent upon some mischief, depend upon it."

"Oh, the old story!" said Montagu. "What is it now, Ned? Do they squint the other way, perchance?"

Edward was mortified; but he answered, respectfully, "No, my noble lord, but the same way as ever. I feel sure they are spies upon you and intend to betray you the very first opportunity."

"Indeed!" said Montagu, now somewhat roused. "But the proofs, Master Ned,—the proofs."

"Absolute proofs I cannot give," said Edward; "but their conduct is so suspicious that I cannot believe them honest. I beg your lordship's excuse while I detail what I have observed during the last ten days. You can then judge for yourself. These men affect to speak a patois almost incomprehensible; but I have detected them speaking as good French as you or I more than once. Together they talk a language I do not at all understand; but good Jacques Beaupré says it is Basque. I am certain it is not Savoyard. At Geneva, one of them wrote a letter and sent it off by a courier who was going to France. During the last two days' journey they have been making as diligent inquiries at every inn, as to the neighborhood, as if they had to direct the march."

"Pooh! that is all nothing," answered Montagu: "don't you think a blacksmith may have a sweetheart to write to, as well as yourself, Ned? And the poor devils, who have to find their way back, may well inquire about the roads."

"Well, my lord, I have but little more to say," replied Edward. "All day they have been looking curiously at every chateau we passed, even at five miles' distance; they have lagged behind all along the road, and stopped more than once to talk with the peasantry they met; and two hours before we arrived here I saw one of them give a piece of money to a lad, who set out incontinently over the fields."

"Ha! that was strange," said Montagu, thoughtfully. "What more?"

"Some three or four hours ago," continued the young man, "the taller of the two despatched the hostler somewhere. I could not learn where; but I heard him say, distinctly, 'Remember, tell him at eleven o'clock; not before eleven!' I have waited and watched ever since, and the scoundrel is now in close conference with a man who has come to see him, while his horse is standing saddled in the stable."

"This looks serious," said Montagu, rising. "Have you remarked any thing further?"

"Yes," answered Edward: "I have remarked that, though they pretend never to have been in this part of the country before, they know every inch of the road and have some acquaintance in every town."

"Let us go to the stable," said Lord Montagu: "I will know more of this before I sleep."

Quietly opening the door, he passed through a sort of dining-room and the kitchen into the court-yard; but at the moment he opened the outer door the sound of horses' feet was heard, and one of the stalls in the stable was found vacant. "Too late!" said Lord Montagu, calmly: "let us go back, Ned, and consult what is to be done."

Perhaps, where one person alone has power to decide, all consultation is useless,—more than useless,—only a waste of time. Who ever takes another man's advice unless he wishes to shuffle off a responsibility to which he feels himself unequal? Give me an obstinate general, if he have but a brain as big as a walnut. As far as success goes, it is better to be bravely wrong than timidly right.

Now, though Lord Montagu had a very great opinion of Edward Langdale's good sense, he had a much better opinion of his own; but councils of war had not then fallen into the state of disrepute to which they have sunk in our days; and therefore he returned to his room, and, having seen the door closely shut, asked, in a grave tone, "Now, Ned, what is to be done?"

"Why, my lord, you are the best judge; but if I were you I would go back to the road we left ten miles behind and go straight to Nancy. You are here on the very frontier of France, surrounded by French towns and castles: there are disputes about the exact bounds, and the cardinal, I should suppose, would not be very particular if he thought he could get possession of your lordship and your papers by a coup-de-main."

"You are a geographer, Ned," said Montagu. "Have you calculated how much time that detour would cost?"

"A day and a half," answered Edward, "if we ride hard."

"The roads are bad,—very hilly," said Montagu: "the beasts are tired now. It would cost two days and a half, at a moderate calculation; and I have not two days and a half to spare. I have promised to meet the Duke of Lorraine on Wednesday at Metz. We have ample time to do it if I ride straight on, but not more; and, if I do not come, he will not and cannot wait."

"Send him a messenger, my lord," said Edward: "I will undertake to carry him any message from your lordship before Tuesday night, to appoint a meeting at Pont à Mousson, or anywhere you like. Better kill a horse by hard riding than have you taken prisoner."

Montagu thought in silence for a few moments, and then said, in a meditative tone, "Do you know, Ned, I do not think there is so much danger as you imagine? The man's conduct is suspicious, I admit; but it is no more than suspicious. How do we know he has any thing to do with Richelieu? But even suppose he has: he can have no means of communicating with his sweet Eminence between this night and to-morrow morning. No governor of a castle or commander of troops would venture to violate a neutral territory without an express order; and it was impossible for the cardinal to know that I should pass by this road, so as to give his orders beforehand. I think we are quite safe, my good youth."

Montagu spoke in that cool sort of indifferent tone which almost implied—at least, so Edward construed it—that his page had been magnifying dangers. The young man bit his lip and for a moment remained silent; but then a sense of duty made him answer, "I cannot but think that by following the direct road your lordship will place yourself in extreme peril."

"Why, you are not afraid, Edward?" said Lord Montagu, laughing. "You little fire-devouring Turk, I never saw you afraid of any thing before."

The young man's cheek reddened. "I am not afraid of any thing, my lord," he answered, "but of seeing your lordship a prisoner in the hands of your enemies. If they once get you into the Bastille, what becomes of all the results of your lordship's negotiations?"

"True," answered Montagu, "the stakes we play for are great ones; but in playing for great stakes one must risk boldly wherever there is a chance of success. I think we can pass, Edward; and I will try it. But I will take precaution to make our passage sure. An hour and a half will carry us over all immediate danger; for the road, I find, bends back deeper into Bar, and it is only on the very frontier that there is any risk. No French force will venture more than a mile at the most into the Duke of Lorraine's territory."

"But what precaution can you take, my lord?" asked Edward, in some surprise. "Doubtless his Highness would grant you an escort; but he has no troops near. We are amidst peasants."

"No, no! I seek no escort," said Montagu: "we will pass alone if we pass at all. But you heard me on our arrival give the order to set out at seven. We will change the hour, Ned, and begin our march at five. Say not a word to any one to-night. I will trust only to you. At four let us all be called. Call Oakingham a quarter of an hour earlier, and Abbot too, for they are slow. Let the groom and the laquais get the horses ready by five; but, above all, say not a word to the Savoyard who is left, or his companion, if he returns, and keep a watch upon them."

"A sure watch," said Edward, with a grim smile. "All shall be ready, my lord; but yet——"

"Nay, nay," said Montagu, waving his hand; "no more objections, Ned. Now send the lackey to me: I will go to bed as if I had no alteration of last night's arrangements in my mind. You had better go to your room, too, and obtain a little sleep. I know you can wake when you like."

"I will go to my room," said Edward; "but I do not close my eyes to-night, my lord. I am not fond of leaving any thing to chance."

"You must have another word," said Montagu, laughing. "Pooh! pooh! We shall pass, my boy. Now, good-night."

Edward left him, sent the lackey to his room, went to the kitchen, where two of the stable-men were sleeping by the fire, roused one of them to give him a lamp, and retired to the chamber where young Abbot was snoring powerfully. But Edward was ill at ease. He thought that the precautions Lord Montagu had spoken of and ordered were not sufficient: he thought—as all men think, and young men especially—that his own plan was the best. However, he drew the charges of his pistols, loaded and primed them afresh; and then, sitting down at the window, where he had a view of the court-yard on one side and on the other a glance into the passage through the door which he left ajar, he waited, without moving a limb, for the coming of morning.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"All but one," said Edward; and, knocking hard at the door of the servants' room, he ordered them in a loud tone to rise and come to the stable. The blacksmith was still at the door; but Edward caught him by the neck and pushed him back into the room, saying, "Pardie! did I not tell you to get dressed?"

The man staggered back, and before he recovered himself the young gentleman had caught the key from the inside and locked the door. He did not, however, call Lord Montagu till he had gone out into the yard and ascertained that the windows of the rooms above were too high to admit of any one dropping to the ground.

A good deal of bustle succeeded: the servants of the house were roused, valises and bags were packed in haste, and horses were saddled; but before five o'clock all was ready for departure, and Edward approached Lord Montagu as he stood before the inn, saying, "Shall I let out that blacksmith? He is safely locked in his room, and hammering at the door as if he would knock it down. Well he left his tools in the stable, or he would have been out by this time."

"Let him out, to-be-sure," said Montagu: "he may follow now if he will. He will keep us too late."

"His horse is saddled for him, my lord," replied Edward: "by your leave he shall come with us, or I will come with him." And, running up-stairs, he opened the door of the man's room.

The worthy was at first inclined to make some noisy remonstrance, but Edward stopped him in an instant. "No noise!" he said, seeing that he was dressed. "Go down-stairs. Get on your horse and put him between me and the groom. If you take a step too quick or a step too slow, you will have a ball through your head in one minute. We know where your comrade is gone, and all about you: so pray Heaven we meet with no misadventure on the road, for, if we do, this is the last morning you will ever see."

The man looked scared out of his senses, and descended the stairs with a face as pale as ashes.

The thundering command of Lord Montagu, "Mount, quick! Stand by him, Ned!" did not serve to allay his apprehensions; and perhaps no man of the whole party more sincerely prayed that they might pass uninterrupted than he did.

The score was paid, and the party rode off, with Montagu and Mr. Oakingham at the head, and Edward Langdale, the groom, and the blacksmith between them, in the rear. It was still quite dark; but the eye of the pretended Savoyard roamed round and round from the very commencement of the journey. At the end of a few minutes he began to talk, and apparently desired to exculpate himself from any complicity in his fellow-countryman's proceedings; but Edward stopped him sternly, saying, "Silence! Your tongue makes as much noise as the crack of a pistol, and I will silence it if you say one word more." He put his hand to his holster as he spoke, and the man ceased instantly.

"I have pistols too, sir," said the sturdy groom.

"He will need no more than I give him," said Edward. "I do not miss, Hobbs."

"No, I know you don't, sir," said the groom: "at least I never saw you."

"Let us keep quiet," said Edward; "but be prepared. If we should be stopped, and this fellow's comrade is there, you take care of him. I will settle with this one."

The first part of the way led up hill, through a pretty close wood skirting the road on either hand; but at the top of the ascent the little party issued forth upon some open, undulating ground, which the insecurity of border-life had kept a good deal out of cultivation. The darkness was now growing pale at the approach of day, and the gray outline of a chateau or two, with a village church some two miles off, and what seemed a considerable town a good deal farther, might be seen to the right and left. All was still and silent till the light clouds overhead began to turn rosy, and then a lark started up close beside the road and went quivering and trilling into the sky.

"My heaven! they are going very slow," murmured the blacksmith, in a low voice and with a groan. "Why does not the English lord go faster, young gentleman? Does he not know this part of the country is full of brigands?"

"He knows there are brigands about," answered Edward; "but we know how to deal with them."

Edward, however, did think that his lord might have ridden faster; and, as they began to descend into another hollow with a thick wood at the bottom, he scanned every thing around and below with a keen, quick eye, but could discover no moving thing.

When they issued out of the wood at the other side of the dell, the sun was apparently just rising above the horizon, and the whole sky was full of purple and gold; and, when they topped the hill above, a wide but not very interesting landscape was before them. Some high blue hills were seen at a distance on the right; but nearer, on both sides, were several chateaux and villages, with scattered woods and ponds and rivers, all glowing like rubies in the red light. The human race, too, began to bestir itself to daily toil, and several men, evidently peasants, were seen leading horses or driving oxen to the field. But the view was soon cut off from their sight by broken banks tumbled about in strange confusion, interspersed with patches of scrubby firs, and here and there a low hovel looking picturesque in its very wretchedness.

The agitation of the blacksmith seemed every moment increasing, and once he even attempted to drop behind; but the stern words from Edward, "Keep up!" accompanied by a motion of the hand toward his pistols, soon brought the man to a line with his companions. At length, after they had ridden on for about half a mile or more, he burst forth, saying, "I want to speak to the lord: he is going too slow. Let me speak to him."

"Well," said Edward, "ride on by my side." And, drawing a pistol as a precaution, he spurred forward. The country indeed just there would have greatly favored the fellow's escape, for it was rough, uneven, and covered with stunted trees and bushes, while a small pine wood flanked the road on the left or French side, and a borne, or landmark, with a low wall, lay on the other. The highway was wide, however; and Edward felt certain that if the smith endeavored to gallop off he could bring him from his horse before he got out of sight. In a moment they were by the side of Lord Montagu, who checked his horse to hear what they wanted.

"My lord, my lord," said the man, in very good French, but with great agitation, "ride fast. Take good advice, and ride fast, or they will catch you."

"Who will catch me?" asked Montagu, eyeing him.

"I do not know who, exactly," said the man, "Brin, my comrade, has the names of so many on his list. The cardinal gave it to him before we set out. But ride fast, for God's sake! There may be time yet."

"Good advice, truly," said Montagu. "Use your spurs, gentlemen. We will inquire further hereafter, if we can,—if we can: ay, if we can, indeed! Draw up your horses. Let the rest come forward. Stir not from that spot, man, or I blow your brains out. Now, who are these before us?"

From a little bridle-path which issued from the wood and crossed the highroad some twelve or fourteen men, well armed and mounted, had just ridden out and barred the way.

"Let us charge them at once, my lord," said Edward. "Some of us may cut through. You shall, if I live."

"Look behind, Ned," said Lord Montagu.

Edward turned his head in the direction to which Montagu had glanced a moment before, and saw a party not much less numerous than that in front, with the blacksmith who had disappeared the night before amongst the foremost. His pistol was in his hand, and the temptation was irresistible. He threw his arm across his chest without wheeling his horse, pulled the trigger, and the traitor fell from his saddle with a bullet in his shoulder.

At the same moment the English groom, who had ridden up at Lord Montagu's first order, caught the other unhappy man by the arm, and had the muzzle of his weapon at his ear; but Montagu put it aside before he could fire, saying, "Vain! vain! Edward, you are always too ready with those pistols."

"I have given him but his due, my lord, if I die for it the next minute," said Edward. "But see: that tall man with the white scarf is waving it to your lordship."

"Stay here, and I will go forward a little," said Lord Montagu. "There is nothing for it but to surrender quietly. They are five to one."

"Let me go with you, my lord," said Edward.

"Well, then, put up your pistol," answered Montagu. "The rest stay here."

Montagu took off his hat in answer to the signal made by the other party, and rode forward with Edward, while a gentleman of some five or six and thirty, who seemed the leader of the larger body gathered across the road, advanced alone to meet the English nobleman. As they neared each other, the two saluted courteously; and throughout their interview the utmost politeness manifested itself, instead of the ferocious roughness which in a French picture of this very incident is represented as characterizing the demeanor of M. de Bourbonne.

The French gentleman spoke first. "I have the honor of wishing you good-day, my Lord Montagu," he said. "Your lordship is here somewhat earlier than we expected you."

"I am sorry I did not know, sir, that you are so matutinal in your habits," replied Montagu, somewhat superciliously; "otherwise I should have been here earlier still."

"Doubtless," answered the other. "But I need not now tell your lordship that, being later than you intended, it is useless to attempt to pursue your journey to-day."

"Why, the roads seem very bad, it is true," said Montagu. "I had hoped that my good friend the Duke of Lorraine kept his highways in better order."

"I am afraid, my lord," said the stranger, "that the French Government must bear the blame in this instance; for you are now upon French soil. That landmark points out the boundary."

"I did not mark the landmark," answered the Englishman; "but, if I be upon French territory, may I know to whom I am indebted for this hospitable reception?"

"My name, my lord, is Bourbonne,—the Count de Bourbonne," said the other. "I only last night heard of your lordship's arrival in these parts; and I at once made preparation to receive you in my chateau."

"We expected something of the kind," rejoined Montagu; "for a personage who had attached himself to my service on the road thought fit to absent himself last night, and we judged he would most likely spread the rumor of my coming. In truth, I wished to spare all noble gentlemen the hospitable trouble you seem inclined to take, and, indeed, would a great deal rather not inflict it upon you now."

"No trouble in the world, my lord," replied the count. "And, indeed, I must insist upon the honor of entertaining you till you can be better lodged. As to the poor man who favored me with notice of your approach, I am afraid he has met with a little accident. I heard the report of a pistol, and saw one of the people there fall off his horse."

"A pure accident," said Montagu, in an indifferent tone. "One of my attendants had a pistol in his hand and his finger upon the trigger. He was seized at that moment with a convulsive affection to which he is sometimes subject: the hammer fell, and the bullet flew out of the muzzle. In those cases, monsieur le comte, the ball, as you must have often remarked, flies right at the greatest villain it can find. It is invariable, I believe."

"Very probably," answered De Bourbonne: "I will ask a philosopher his opinion. But, in the mean time, may I ask your lordship if there are more accidents of the same kind likely to happen? Are there any other gentlemen of yours with their fingers on their triggers?"

"Oh, no!" replied Montagu. "I made them put all their pistols up as soon as I comprehended the pressing nature of the invitation I was about to receive, and the forcible arguments ready to back it. Am I to understand that it is extended to my attendants also?"

"To every one," replied the count, with a low bow. "I could never think of asking your lordship to my house without including your friends and followers."

"You do me too much honor," said Montagu. "But amongst my followers you will find a comrade of the worthy gentleman who did me the favor of being my harbinger. Now, if I have any influence with you, my lord count, I would bespeak for him a high place, not in your esteem, but on your castle. Doubtless you have battlements, or iron stanchions, or things of that kind, about, to which you could raise him sus per col. He has all the same qualities as his friend, whom you already know, and is a Savoyard, he says,[5]—though we have some doubts upon the subject."

"I should be most happy to oblige your lordship in any thing," answered the Count de Bourbonne; "but you know the king is the bestower of all dignities and the fountain of all honors; and therefore I cannot take upon me to raise the gentleman to the elevated position you desire for him."

"Well, well," replied Montagu, "time works wonders; and doubtless he will meet his deserts sooner or later. May I ask if you have lately heard from our mutual friend the Cardinal de Richelieu?"

"Last night, my lord," answered Bourbonne. "He was quite well, and desired me to inquire particularly after your health."

"I expected no less of his courtesy," said the English nobleman. "But I see your people are closing up pretty near, and, if I mistake not, have got possession of my valet's horse, with a desire of lightening the poor beast's load. We had probably better join them, as the man does not comprehend much French; and Englishmen are sometimes so surly and stupid that it is impossible to get them to comprehend the force of numbers."

"At your pleasure," replied the count; and, making a sign to his followers on the road to the north to join him, he went quietly to the spot where Mr. Oakingham and Lord Montagu's servants had remained.

He now somewhat changed his tone, and, abandoning the bantering mood in which he and Lord Montagu had indulged, but still with undiminished courtesy of manner, required all present but his own followers to give up their arms. Edward for one did so with regret; but still it was some satisfaction to him to see the treacherous blacksmith lying on the bank with his comrade busily engaged in bandaging his wounded shoulder.

"I will now have the honor of conducting you to my poor house," said the count, bowing to Lord Montagu; and, with five or six armed men before and a larger number following, with three on each side to guard against any evasion, he commenced his march. Before departing, however, he spoke a word or two to one of his attendants; and Edward remarked that, as they went, a diligent examination was made of all the pistols which his party had given up, as if to ascertain which had been discharged; and he doubted not that some consequences not very agreeable to himself would follow the inevitable discovery that he had fired the shot which had wounded the traitor.

The road wound through one of the wildest parts of France, just upon the frontier of Champagne and Bar; two or three small rivers had to be crossed; the country was but little cultivated, bearing more the aspect of a sandy moor than of the entrance to one of the richest wine-districts in the world; and more than once Edward cast his eyes around, thinking that it might be no difficult matter to escape and find a refuge in Lorraine if he could but avoid the pistol-shots which were sure to follow him. Had he been intrusted with the care of Lord Montagu's papers he would certainly have made the attempt, but he knew not even who carried them, and he resolved not to abandon his lord except for his service.

Whether Montagu divined what was passing in his mind or not, I cannot tell; but, after they had gone about half a mile, he called Edward to his side and said to him, in English, "Keep still, Ned. Activity will do no good here. The best thing for all of us is to be perfectly passive. If I had trusted to your young, sharp eyes sooner, it might have been better; but it is too late now either to regret or amend what is done."

"May I request your lordship to speak to your attendants in French?" said Monsieur de Bourbonne. "You speak our tongue in such perfection, my lord, that it must be as familiar to you as your own."

"I shall probably have time to study it more profoundly," answered Montagu, with a smile. "But you can inform me yourself, count, if that fine old chateau upon the height is Bourbonne, where we shall rest, I presume."

"That is Bourbonne," replied the count; "and the little town you may catch sight of down there in the hollow, a little to the left. But, though we will stop there to take some refreshment, I think that the Castle of Coiffy will afford your lordship a more convenient resting-place."

"Oh, yes! I remember Coiffy," answered Montagu, laughing. "I passed close to it some three months ago. It is a strong place, and so well built, I am told, count, that the garrison cannot hear the drums of Lorraine beat at Bar."

"That is only because they do not pay attention to them, my lord," replied Bourbonne.

As they rode on, the old chateau grew more and more clearly defined; and the state of decay into which the ancient defences had fallen showed plainly why it had not been chosen for the place of Montagu's detention.

In the village the party stopped to breakfast, and the English nobleman was treated with every sort of respectful attention; but a strict guard was kept at the door of the chamber where he was served. The attendants had some food placed before them in another room; but they were as carefully watched. In about an hour the march recommenced, and shortly after, while gazing forward, Edward perceived rising over the trees at the distance of several miles the towers of Coiffy, a much stronger place than Bourbonne, which he never lost sight of till they reached the drawbridge.

It was apparent that their coming had been made known beforehand, for all was evidently prepared to receive Lord Montagu with ceremonious politeness. An old gentleman whom they called Monsieur de Boulogne stood in the gateway, hat in hand, and immediately proceeded to conduct the noble prisoner to his apartments.

Mr. Oakingham followed, and Edward Langdale was about to do the same, when the Count de Bourbonne took him by the arm, saying, "Stop, young man! I destine another chamber for you."

His tone was somewhat menacing, and Edward turned round and gazed full in his face.

"Tell me," said the count, "and mind you tell me true——"

"If I tell you any thing at all, I shall tell you the truth," answered Edward, interrupting him: "so spare such exhortations, sir count. But it is probable that I shall not answer a small gentleman of Champagne at all, especially if he interrogates me in a manner which much greater personages than himself have never displayed toward me."

It is probable that this rude answer was intended to stop all inquiries into Lord Montagu's affairs,—for Edward did not doubt that they were about to be the subject of De Bourbonne's questions; but the count gazed on him with extreme surprise, exclaiming, "Ha! Whom have we here? A small gentleman of Champagne! Will your magnificence have the condescension, then, to inform the small gentleman of Champagne if it was your hand that sent a pistol-ball into the shoulder of a poor personage who came up with my train when I first had the honor of seeing you?"

"It was by accident I shot him in the shoulder," replied Edward: "I intended the ball for his head."

"If he dies we may find a rope that will fit you, young man," said the count; and, beckoning up the man who had examined the pistols on the road, he said, "Take him away and put him in the dungeon where I told you."

"If you hang me, sir count," said Edward, without the slightest alarm, "you will do so with the passport in my breast which was given me by his Eminence of Richelieu with his own hand. You had better ask the two spies a few questions before you treat me with any thing like indignity."

So saying, he followed the man to whom Bourbonne had spoken. Another soldier took a lantern from a hook and came after; and in a minute or two Edward found himself pushed into a room where the faint light of the lantern only served to show the shining damp which clung to the stone walls.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Now, doubtless the reader learned in romance-composition may imagine that I am merely preparing the way for a fine scene of escape from prison, with melodramatic incidents, new songs, scenery, and decorations. But, as I am sorry to say no such heroic result was at this time achieved by Lord Montagu's page, I cannot use it as an incident in this part of my true history. I only mention the percolation of the water of the fosse, and its effect upon the foundations amongst which that and other dungeons were placed, to show that the place of the poor youth's confinement was as damp and disagreeable as it could be. Some stones had fallen from the vault above, some large detached pieces of mortar, green and shiny, covered the mud or stone floor, and the walls were all glistening with dampness; but those walls were too thick and the blocks of stone of which they were composed too heavy for any unaided prisoner to have worked his way out, with the utmost diligence. In one corner of the miserable hole was a sort of camp-bedstead, with a straw bed covered with yellow and green stains from long exposure to the foul, moist air,—disgust and sickness and death to lie upon; and in another corner, high up on the wall, was a little grated window, not so high as the opposite parapet of the glacis, but sufficiently so to admit the air and the sounds from without. The wall was too thick to allow of a prisoner catching even a glimpse of the blue sky or to permit one ray of the sun to enter, even at his rising or his setting. It was indeed a desolate chamber. What an expressive word that desolate is! Although sometimes in the heats of an almost tropical climate—heats often more intense than I ever heard of in the tropics themselves—I sometimes grumble a little at the power and ardor of the sun, yet what would the earth be without him? what is any place on the earth's surface which he does not visit? Desolate, desolate indeed!

The first sound which Edward heard after the bolts had ceased to grate in their sockets was that of a cannon, apparently from the walls of the castle. Some few minutes after the same sound seemed to be repeated from a distance. It might be an echo. He could not tell. But a moment or two after another report was heard, certainly nearer; and then two more confirmed his fancy that they were signal-guns announcing that the well-watched English envoy had been captured and was a prisoner at Coiffy. Some three hours then passed, if not in perfect silence, at least only enlivened by the voices of some soldiers on the ramparts; and then came the squeaking of the wry-necked fife and the beating of drums, intimating to Edward that troops of some kind were drawing round Coiffy. Then were heard voices on the drawbridge, and gay laughter, as if officers were being received into the castle with signs of honor.

All that passed away, and silence resumed her reign till night fell. The light in the lantern burned down almost to the socket. No meat, no drink, had been brought to the prisoner; and he began to ask himself if it could be their intention to starve him there in darkness. His feelings were not pleasant.

Just about that time there was some noise and bustle heard from without,—probably on the drawbridge or at the gate,—the tramp of horses, and voices speaking. Then for a few minutes all was silent again. Then there were sounds just above, more distinct and clear than any he had hitherto heard,—people speaking, and others moving slowly about,—evidently penetrating to the cell which Edward tenanted by the broken parts of the vault on which the flooring of the upper chamber rested.

"Oh!" cried a voice, with a groan, "you have got me by the shoulder just on the wound! Do not do that! Put your hand lower down: not there, not there!—lower still. That young devil! he does not miss his mark, indeed!"

"Lay him on the bed,—flat on his back," said another voice. "Now, Brin, is not that easier for you?" And then followed several sentences in a language Edward did not understand at all.

"The two blacksmiths," said Edward to himself. "They have just brought in the wounded man."

For some half-hour various sounds succeeded, some distinct, others confused, to which the young prisoner did not pay much attention; and then there was a sort of lull,—not quite silence, but still much less bustle. Even slight sounds were easily distinguishable in the dungeon; for the roof was so far dilapidated that here and there the rays of light from above found their way through a chink in the flooring and traced a yellow line upon the pavement. He could hear the wounded man groan and ask in a faint tone for drink.

"He is badly hurt, it seems," said Edward Langdale to himself: "if the horse had not shied away, it would have gone through his head and served the traitor right."

Edward wanted a little more softening to make him a real sentimental hero; but I can only paint him as I find him. He did not feel the slightest remorse for what he had done. He thought it but right,—but just; and he would have done it over again the next minute. It is true, the groans of the wounded man did somewhat annoy him. He felt no pleasure in his pain; but, as to the mere fact of having shot him because he had betrayed his lord, Edward was as hard as a stone.

It seemed, indeed, as if Monsieur de Bourbonne was inclined to try upon the young Englishman the treatment sometimes employed to tame wild beasts,—fasting and darkness. He had kept him without food all day; and now the light in the lantern went out, and all was obscure in the dungeon, except where those yellow streaks from above checkered the floor; and the youth's only entertainment was to listen while a good deal of walking to and fro and speaking took place overhead. He divined from all he heard that a surgeon had been sent for and was performing some operation upon the wounded man. At length the latter exclaimed, "Oh, you have got it now. There, there! that is comfortable. It feels as if you had pulled out a hot coal!"

Just at that time a soldier opened the dungeon-door and brought in a pitcher of cool water and some bread.

"Am I to be kept in darkness?" asked Edward.

"I don't know," answered the man, holding up his own lantern to look at him: "you have offended Monsieur le Comte mightily, it seems; but I do not suppose that he intends you should have no light."

"Well, tell him something for me," replied Edward. "Say that I am greatly obliged to him for all his kindness, but that I have friends in France who will repay him sevenfold, or I am much mistaken in them."

The man went away without reply, but returned in a minute or two with a fresh candle.

"Did you tell him?" asked Edward.

"Yes," answered the soldier, who seemed a good-natured sort of person; "I told him. But you had better not enrage him. It will do no good, young gentleman."

Edward ate heartily of his poor fare, and drank the cool water as if it had been nectar. He had hardly finished the temperate meal, when he heard a voice above which he recognised by a slight hesitation of speech as that of Monsieur de Bourbonne; and he certainly might be excused in his circumstances for listening with all his ears.

First the count made several inquiries as to the state of the wounded man; and then he added, "Well, my good friend, I have got the young tiger who scratched you safely caged in the worst dungeon of the castle. I hope you will get well; but if you should die I will hang him from the herse."

"For God's sake, do not do that, monseigneur," cried the companion of the patient.

"If I die, hang him as high as you please," growled the voice of Maître Brin: "the cardinal cannot do any thing to me after I am dead, and the young devil had better go with me."

"Ha!" said Monsieur de Bourbonne, apparently in a tone of some surprise: "he boasts of having some good friends in France, and speaks as if he personally knew his Eminence."

"And so he does," said Brin's more timid companion: "he is a great favorite of the cardinal; and Monsieur de Tronson warned us not to touch a hair of his head under any circumstances. He said that we should be held to answer for any evil that happened to him. We were only to follow him wherever he went from Nantes, and not lose sight of him till he joined the English lord."

"Then did you first see him at Nantes?" asked the count.

"Surely," replied the other: "we waited in the court-yard while he was in with the cardinal, that we might take good note of him as he came out."

There was a silence of some minutes, and then the voice of the sick man was heard saying, "After all, you had better not treat him badly, monseigneur. I do not think I am very much hurt; and if he is hardly used some of us will suffer, you may be sure."

"You should have told me this before," said Monsieur de Bourbonne, in a very sharp tone.

"Why, what time had we to tell you any thing, monseigneur?" asked the wounded man's brother.

"At all events, we tell you now," growled Brin; "and this talking is not likely to do me good. The lad is as fierce as a young wolf. He threatened to shoot me once before; but he is a pet of the cardinal,—one of his own people, for aught we know,—and, now that you are told he is so, you may use him as you think fit. It is no fault of ours: we have not hurt him."

It is probable that the interview was less satisfactory to the Count de Bourbonne than he had expected; for he brought it speedily to a conclusion, and Edward for full half an hour after heard the two men above talking together in the language he did not understand. At the end of that time the bolt of the door was undrawn, and the soldier who had previously brought him bread and water appeared again, with somewhat of a grin upon his face.

"Well, young gentleman," he said, "Monsieur le Comte begs you will send him up the safe-conduct you mentioned to him. After seeing that, perhaps they may treat you better."

"Tell him I will not!" said Edward, in a resolute tone: "he may come and take it from me by force,—or he may see it here in my presence; but I give it out of my own hands to no one,—especially not to one who has treated me unlike a soldier and a gentleman. Tell him what I say."

The soldier laughed. "'Pon my word, you are a bold one!" he said. "Do you not know you are quite in his power?"

"Not so much as you think," replied Edward: "I am not the least afraid of him. Tell him exactly what I say."

A full hour passed; and probably it was spent in some degree of anxious and hesitating deliberation between Monsieur de Bourbonne and the Count de Boulogne, his father-in-law, for they remained the whole of that time shut up together in a small room on the second floor. One can easily conceive that it was a hard thing for a proud and irritable man to make any concession to a mere lad who set him at defiance in language somewhat tinged with contempt. But a bold face stoutly kept up has a great effect upon most men; and if Edward had known the count intimately he could not (though it was entirely accidental) have chosen his course better. De Bourbonne was brave, and even rash; but he had a terrible reverence for power, and, when he found the youth's account of himself confirmed even by the very man whose life he had nearly taken, fancy conjured up all sorts of ministerial indignation, and showed him the service he had rendered in the capture of Lord Montagu—on which he had based many gorgeous dreams—more than counterbalanced in the eyes of Richelieu by his treatment of one of the cardinal's favorites. Monsieur de Boulogne, too, an older and milder man, strongly counselled moderation and gentleness, somewhat censured what had been already done, and advised recourse to measures perhaps too directly and suddenly opposed.

Still, pride struggled hard with De Bourbonne. He vowed he did not and would not believe the tale which he had heard. What hold, he asked, could a mere fierce English lad have upon the cardinal? and for some time his father-in-law reminded him in vain that Richelieu, though a wonderfully great man, was somewhat capricious in his affections, suggested that, as he was not a little superstitious, too, in regard to astrology and the occult sciences, he might find some imaginary connection between the youth's fate and his own, and pointed out that it was utterly improbable Edward should treat him with such daring disrespect if he was not certain of some very strong support.

In the mean time the poor prisoner remained in some doubt and anxiety. Imprisonment, solitude, and low diet had gone some way to tame the wild bird, and the uncertainty of the last hour had been very heavy. He had fancied that the words he had heard spoken by the wounded man and his companion would produce an immediate change; but, as minute after minute passed by and nothing indicated any better treatment, he began to despond. At length, however, he heard the tramp of feet and the jingle of spurs, and a man with a torch opened the door, admitting Monsieur de Boulogne and one or two attendants.

"Young gentleman," said the old nobleman, with a reproving but fatherly air, "you have been acting very rashly and impetuously toward the count my son-in-law."

"And how has he been acting toward me, sir?" asked Edward, in a more respectful tone than he had used in speaking to the younger man.

"Somewhat harshly, I am afraid," said the other, looking round him: "he could not have known the state of this place, or he would not have put you here."

"What right had he to put me in a dungeon at all?" asked Edward.

"Why, you shot and nearly killed one of his attendants," was the reply.

"Not at all," answered Edward. "You are deceived, sir. I shot an attendant of Lord Montagu whom I caught in the act of betraying his master. Ask his lordship—ask the man himself or his brother—if they had not both taken service with my lord and received his money."

The old gentleman smiled. "That puts a new face upon the matter," he said. "But let us leave recriminations. I wish to smooth matters down between you and my fiery relative. You say you have a safe-conduct from his Eminence of Richelieu. Let me see it."

"On the sole condition, sir, that you restore it to me at once," said Edward, putting his hand into a pocket in the breast of his coat and taking out the passport in its velvet case.

"Let me examine it," said Monsieur de Boulogne. "Do not fear. You shall have it again in a moment."

"I do not fear," replied the youth, giving him the case. "I am sure you are a man of honor, by your face."

"Here, man, hold the torch nearer," said the count; and, putting a pair of spectacles—or banicles, as they were then commonly called—upon his nose, he proceeded to examine the safe-conduct minutely. But all was in proper form and order, calling upon all royal officers, governors of cities, castles, or provinces, to let the Seigneur Edward Langdale and suite pass and repass, without limitation of time or place, throughout the land of France; and there was the seal of the council, and the undoubted signature of the prime minister.

The face of the count turned very grave as he read. "This is odd!" he said. "My son should have seen this. Here is your suite mentioned, young gentleman. Of whom consists your suite?"

"I might reply," said Edward, "that any one I choose to name is of my suite, for his Eminence put no restriction. But I wish not to quibble. The suite of which he speaks is now at Nancy,—with the exception of one page," he added, half smiling, "who is in Venice."

"Well, this is all very strange," said the old man. "I cannot understand the cardinal's giving you such a wide safe-conduct at all,—an Englishman,—and a youth like you."

"I am neither bound nor inclined to explain the motives of his Eminence," replied Edward. "If you think fit to interrogate any one upon that subject, it must be himself."

"God forbid!" cried Monsieur de Boulogne, eagerly. "There! take the paper and come with me. I will take this business on myself. Two such young, rash spirits may make mischief."

Edward followed, willingly enough; and the old count led him up the stairs from the dungeon to a tolerably comfortable room in one of the towers above, where he left him on his promise to remain till Monsieur de Bourbonne could be conferred with. In a few minutes the two noblemen entered together, De Bourbonne evidently struggling—not very successfully—to keep up his dignity while forced to make disagreeable concessions.

"The Count de Boulogne informs me, sir," he said, "that you have really got a safe-conduct from his Eminence of Richelieu."

"Which you have known ever since mid-day," said Edward.

"Hush! hush!" said the elder gentleman. "No more of that. Tell my son-in-law, young gentleman, what it is you demand of him in the circumstances."

"I demand that he shall respect the cardinal's safe-conduct," answered the youth.

But De Bourbonne waved his hand, saying, "I will respect it by sending you to his Eminence under guard on the very first opportunity. What more?"

"That I be no more put in a wet dungeon; that I be not fed on bread and water; that I have my baggage restored to me; and that I be treated in every respect as that safe-conduct gives me a right to expect."

"Granted," said the count, "but upon the clear understanding that you are a prisoner and remain such till I can send you to the cardinal."

"With the clear understanding added," replied Edward, "that you shall be called to a strict account for every hour you keep me prisoner without lawful cause, and for your manifest disobedience of the cardinal's written orders under his own hand and seal."

The count's face flushed, and he exclaimed, in evident embarrassment, "What the fiend are you to the cardinal, or the cardinal to you?"

But Edward saw that, one way or another, he had got the advantage. "That, sir," he said, in a cool tone, "you may have to learn hereafter, from other lips than mine. In the mean time you can do exactly as you think fit. Obey the commands you have received in the king's name, or disobey them, as seems expedient to you; but only do not put me in a damp dungeon or feed me on bread and water any more, for it is as unpleasant to me as it may be dangerous to yourself."

"But suppose the safe-conduct is a forgery," said De Bourbonne.

"It would be a curious one," replied the youth, with perfect composure,—"somewhat bold to devise and difficult to practise. Of that you can judge yourself; but take care you judge right. I have but one other demand to make; namely, to be permitted to visit my Lord Montagu."

"He has gone to bed," said De Bourbonne, sharply, "and I shall consider of the matter further till to-morrow. I have now one more question. How much liberty in this castle do you want? It will depend entirely upon whether you do or do not give me your parole of honor that you will not attempt to escape."

"Now, this is strange!" said Edward, with an irrepressible laugh. "One moment I am suspected of forgery, and the next my word of honor is to be relied upon implicitly. However, Monsieur le Comte, as I have no intention of leaving you quite so soon, and as, if I did escape, I should run straight to his Eminence, to whom you say you intend to send me, I will give you my parole. But would you allow me to insinuate that I am exceedingly hungry, and that I have always considered a little good wine of Beaugency better than a draught of cold water out of a pitcher not over-clean?"

Both the counts laughed; and old Monsieur de Boulogne, taking his son-in-law by the arm, led him away, saying, in a low voice, "Come, come! I shall make you two better friends before I have done."

"You will need to do so, father," said M. de Bourbonne; "for, on my life, it shall be long enough before that keen boy sees the cardinal. If what he says is true,—as I suppose it is,—the tales he has to tell might ruin us; and, if it is false, he well deserves a good long spell of imprisonment."

CHAPTER XXXV.

The effect was very different upon different people. The great cardinal rejoiced at the success of his well-laid schemes; for he had long known, and watched with a keen eye, the negotiations which had been intrusted to the English nobleman. Perhaps, however, he rejoiced more at the hold which he doubted not the seized papers of the diplomatist would give him upon his own enemies in France itself than upon the means afforded of frustrating all the combinations which had been effected abroad against his country. His mighty mind feared foreign enemies much less than secret cabal at home. In fact, he knew that the fortress of his power was strong enough to resist a cannonade but might not be proof against a mine.

Nor was the spirit of the king dissatisfied to learn that Buckingham's agent had fallen into his power, with all his correspondence, compromising probably one-third of the nobility of France. We have not had time, we shall not have space, to dwell upon the character of Louis, though it well merits a treatise entirely to itself. His sports in youth had been cruel, his amusements low. His father had called him "that wicked boy;" and, though he possessed all that father's courage and much of his military skill, he had none of his kindness of heart, his clemency, or his gentleness. It may be that he did not feel pleasure in the shedding of blood, but it is certain that he never objected to shed it; and when his best friends and greatest favorites were condemned, often by unlawful tribunals, he consented to their death with coolness or a jest.

But there was one in France who heard of Lord Montagu's capture with very different feelings. Anne of Austria, the unhappy queen, the childless wife of the coldest-hearted monarch that ever lived, received the tidings with terror and confusion. It might be that the tales they tell of certain secret communications between her and the brilliant Duke of Buckingham were founded in truth. It might be that she had connived at schemes for the overthrow of a minister who persecuted her. But it is beyond doubt that she held dangerous correspondence with her own family in Spain, that Buckingham had been negotiating with that court, and that Montagu was his most confidential emissary. What letters might not be upon his person at the moment of his arrest?—what papers which might give a complete triumph to her enemies? and she had many. Happily, however, she had many friends, sincere, devoted, fearless. At the very moment when she was in the most profound agony of terror, one of these was near at hand.

It is well known that gentlemen of good family but small means were in those days proud to accept even what we consider menial offices in the household of princes or great men. A youth of the name of Laporte had been attached to the service of Anne of Austria, in the humble capacity of valet-de-chambre, almost ever since her entrance into France. In one of the many intrigues of the court he had incurred the anger of the king, but had been permitted to enter a corps of cavalry, known as the Gens d'armes de la Reine, as ensign. This corps, at the time of the capture of Lord Montagu, was serving on the frontiers of Lorraine, and was one of the first to be called toward the Chateau of Coiffy to form part of the escort of the noble prisoner on his way to Paris. But Laporte was not with his regiment. He was, when the news arrived, on leave of absence in the capital, and his presence had been known to the young queen. At midnight, and in disguise, he was brought to the Louvre; and Anne of Austria at once laid open to her attached servant the terrible apprehensions under which she suffered. To ascertain if her name was at all compromised in the correspondence of Lord Montagu was of immediate importance. It was, in fact, an affair of life and death. But to do so seemed utterly hopeless. All the papers of the prisoner were in the hands of his captors, and the utmost secresy was maintained as to their contents. Laporte, however, undertook the difficult task, and on the following day set out to rejoin his regiment at Coiffy. The way was long, and he did not reach the castle till the prisoner and his escort were already on the march to Paris; but he was near enough to witness the absurd gasconade of M. de Bourbonne, who, having gathered together a very considerable force, notified the Duke of Lorraine of the day and hour when he would commence his journey. A cannon was fired from the battlements to give notice that the French troops were in motion; and the whole body remained in battle-array for about half an hour, to give the duke, Monsieur de Bourbonne said, an opportunity of rescuing the prisoner if he could. When this comedy had been enacted, the worthy Laporte joined his regiment and fell into the ranks, resolved, as he states, to watch for some happy accident which might enable him to communicate with the captive. Fortune favored him sooner than he expected, and, indeed, beyond all expectation. In the midst of the troops, consisting of some nine hundred horse, rode the Counts of Bourbonne and Boulogne, with Lord Montagu between them, treated with every mark of profound respect, but disarmed, without spurs, and mounted on a small horse not very capable of competing in speed with those which surrounded him. Laporte marked all this well; but a much more easy and secure mode of communicating with the English nobleman than any effort in the open field soon presented itself. The Baron de Ponthieu, a gentleman of considerable distinction, was one of the officers of Laporte's company of Gens d'armes de la Reine; and, as soon as he saw a man whose leave of absence did not expire for some weeks suddenly rejoin his regiment, an instant suspicion crossed his mind that his inferior officer had some important object in view. The baron was one of the most devoted partisans of the queen. He knew that Laporte was a bird of the same color, and also that he came straight from Paris. Quick and clear-sighted, Ponthieu, it appears, in his conjectures came near the real object of his companion-in-arms. But he had the rare gift of discretion; and, after having sounded Laporte and found that he was unwilling to trust his dangerous secret even to him, he contented himself with losing no occasion to give facilities for communication between the queen's attendant and the English prisoner.

What marks the age as especially an age of faction is the fact that men usually sensitive on the point of honor had not the slightest scruple in violating their most sacred obligations and most solemn oaths in favor of the party to which they belonged. No shame, no remorse, attached to such acts; but, on the contrary, they were looked upon, both by actors and observers, as proofs of chivalrous daring and skilful diplomacy. Ponthieu and Laporte, though serving in what was called the "Queen's Gens d'armes," were the soldiers of the king, bound by solemn oaths to obey and serve him against all and every one; but they had not the least hesitation in betraying their trust and violating their promise when it was to assist the queen or thwart the minister. It was not dishonest or disloyal in their eyes: it was honorable and chivalrous. There is too much of this in the world even now; but there was much more then, and the wars of the Fronde both brought the abuse to its height and in some degree wrought its cure.

Monsieur de Bourbonne had received secret instructions to treat Lord Montagu with every sort of consideration, while taking all measures to prevent his escape; and at each halt upon the long march the officers of the various corps which escorted him were invited to bear him company during the evening, and various devices were formed for amusing the prisoner. Ponthieu, divining, as I have said, Laporte's object, invited his young comrade to partake his quarters, which were always near those of De Bourbonne, and took care that he should be at all the parties given in the evening for Montagu's entertainment. At the very first interview, Montagu, who never forgot a face, remembered having seen the young officer when he had visited Paris some years before; and mutual looks of intelligence conveyed the information that Laporte was not there without a purpose. Cards were introduced, and the ensign of the Queen's Gens d'armes contrived to slip a pencil across to the captive. On the succeeding night, Laporte sat at the same card-table with Montagu, Monsieur de Bourbonne, and Ponthieu. But in shuffling the pack the young officer let it fall, scattering the cards upon the floor. He stooped instantly to remedy the effects of his awkwardness. Montagu stooped also with an easy grace to assist him; and, before he rose, a note was in his pocket, beseeching him to inform the writer if amongst his papers there had been any matter which could compromise the queen, and desiring him to be very careful of even mentioning her name.

On the following evening, Lord Montagu, with a free and unembarrassed air, held out his hand to the young officer when they met, and, with better skill than the Signor Morini, contrived to slip into the hand of Laporte an answer to the note of the preceding night, without being seen by any one.

It conveyed the joyful news that the queen's name had never been mentioned in the papers which had fallen into the hands of the captors, and that Montagu himself would rather die than compromise her in any way.

Nevertheless, although he knew the anxiety and suspense of his royal lady, Laporte did not venture to trust the billet out of his own hands, nor again to quit his regiment to carry the intelligence himself. He was forced, therefore, to accompany the prisoner's escort by slow marches to Paris, and to see Montagu lodged in the Bastille. As soon as that was done, however, he found his way secretly to the Louvre, and easily explained to Anne of Austria the causes of his delay and the complete success of his mission. He tells the story himself; but, with the usual fate of zeal, intelligence, and devotion, his services were but poorly rewarded, though they were highly praised.