It was at the corner of the Rue Gogard that I saw her first. You may, perhaps, recall the place, if you know Montauban. A great barrack of a building, time-stained and neglected, blocks the way as one turns into it from the Rue Pluvois. Before the house is a high wall, pierced by a single gateway. The door is of oak, four inches thick and heavily barred with iron,—Vincennes has few stronger,—wherefrom it may be seen that he who built the structure was a man who had his enemies.

The door held my eye, as I turned the corner, by its very massiveness, and just as I reached it, it was flung open with a crash, and a girl rushed into the street. She stopped as she saw me standing there, and my hat was sweeping the pavement as I caught her eyes on mine.

“You seem a man of honor,” she said, and pressed her hand against her breast as though to calm the beating of her heart.

“A thousand thanks, Mademoiselle,” I answered, and I saw that even the stark emotion which possessed her could not bemask the beauty of her face. “Believe me, I shall be most happy to prove it.”

“You have a sword?” she asked, still eying me with attention.

I threw back my cloak and touched the hilt.

“And know how to use it?”

“Try me, Mademoiselle,” I said simply.

The color swept back into her face and her eyes narrowed with sudden resolution.

“Then follow me, Monsieur,” she said, and turned back through the gateway.

I was at her heels as she ran across the little court and plunged into a dark doorway beyond. I paused an instant to draw my sword, dropping my cloak that it might not cumber me, and then clattered up the stair behind her. It was dark and narrow and of many turnings, so that she, who knew the place, had reached the top while I was stumbling along midway, cursing the darkness. But she awaited me, and as I reached her side held out her hand to me. My own closed over it in an instant and found it soft and warm and trembling. Here was an adventure after my own heart, and I had had so few adventures!

“Cautiously, Monsieur!” she whispered, and led the way along a narrow hall to the right. The darkness was absolute, the atmosphere close and stifling. I began to wonder if I had walked into a trap, but that warm little hand in mine reassured me. Besides, who could know my errand from Marsan, and, not knowing it, who would set a trap for so small a bird as I? Then, suddenly, as we turned a corner, I heard the sound of angry voices and saw a light streaming redly through an open doorway. In a moment we had reached it, and I paused in astonishment as I saw what lay within.

There was a great fire blazing on the hearth, which threw into sharp relief a bed with disordered hangings, an open desk with papers overflowing from it to the floor, a chair overturned, even the faded tapestry upon the walls. But it was at none of these I looked, though I found them all bit into my memory afterwards. It was at a man bound to a chair, at two others who were glancing hastily through the papers they were pulling from the drawers of the desk, at a fourth who was making an iron turn white in the glow of the fire. The man in the chair was watching the door with agonized eyes, but of the faces of the others I could see nothing, for they were masked.

Even as I stood there, palsied by astonishment, the man at the fire drew forth the iron and turned with it sputtering in his hand.

“Come, M. le Comte,” he said, “I think this will answer,” and he advanced towards the prisoner.

But the girl was through the doorway ere he had taken a second step.

“You curs! You cowards!” she screamed, and ran at him as though to wrench the hissing iron from his hands.

Her voice had loosed the chains which bound me, and I sprang after her, drew her back with one hand, and while the man stood for an instant agape at this intrusion, ran him through the breast. As he felt my sword in his flesh he raised his hand and threw the iron full at me, but I stepped aside and avoided it, and he fell in a heap on the hearth. The others were upon me almost before I could turn, and with the suddenness of their rush drove me into a corner, where, in truth, I was very glad to go and get my back snugly against the wall. The moment I felt their blades against my own I knew I had swordsmen to deal with. For a breath I held them off, then I saw them exchange a glance, and as one knocked up my blade, the other ran me through the shoulder. It had been my heart, but that I sprang to the right. In the instant that followed I saw my chance and thrust full at my opponent, who had left his breast uncovered, but my point rang against a net of steel and the blade shivered in my grasp.

“Well thrust,” he said, laughing harshly. “’Tis a pity so pretty a swordsman must die so young. Come, Gaspard, let us finish,” and he advanced to thrust again. I had my poniard out, but knew it would be of little service.

And then, as I steeled myself for this last attack, commending my soul to the Virgin, I saw a white arc of sputtering iron sweep through the air and hiss deep into the cheek of the man in armor. He fell back with a terrible cry, and, dropping his sword, clapped his hands to his face. The other stood for an instant dazed, then, with an oath, caught up his companion and plunged into the darkness of the hall without. I heard his footsteps echoing along it for a moment, then all was still. Only the girl stood there with the bar of iron still in her hand.

“I thank you, Mademoiselle,” I said. “In another moment I had been beyond assistance.”

She smiled at me faintly, tremulously, and cast the iron down upon the hearth. Plainly, she was not used to scenes of violence, and had small relish for them.

“Come,” I continued, “let us release the prisoner,” and with my poniard I cut the ropes which bound him. He arose from the chair unsteadily, stretched his limbs, and looked at me with a good-humored light in his eyes.

“In faith, Monsieur,” he said, “you arrived most opportunely. I admit I have no appetite for white-hot iron. I am a man of the pen, not of the sword. Accept my thanks,” and he bowed with a certain dignity.

I bowed in return, not to be outdone in courtesy; then, of a sudden I felt my strength drop from me, and sat down limply on the chair from which I had just released him.

“Oh, you are wounded!” cried the girl. “See, uncle, here in his shoulder,” and before I could prevent it she had sunk to her knees beside me and was tearing away my doublet. In a trice my shoulder was bare, and she examined the wound with compressed lips, touching it with intelligent fingers that bespoke her convent training.

“It is nothing,” I protested weakly. “A mere flesh-wound. Do not trouble about it, I beg of you, Mademoiselle. I shall be better in a moment.”

But the man interrupted me.

“Nonsense!” he said curtly, and he too looked at the wound. “Claire,” he added, “bring a basin of water and clean linen. We will soon repair this damage.”

I followed her with my eyes as she ran to do his bidding. So her name was Claire, and I repeated it over and over to myself, as a man rolls wine in his mouth to get the full flavor. She was soon back, and the wound washed clean and deftly bandaged.

“There,” he said at last, “I think that will do. I do not believe the hurt a dangerous one, Monsieur, but you would best consult without delay a more skilful surgeon than either Claire or I. One thing more I can do for you,” and he opened a cupboard in the wall and brought out a flask of wine. “Drink this,” he said, and handed me a glass brimming over. I drained it at a draught—how good it tasted!

“A thousand thanks,” I said. “I am quite myself again. I trust Mademoiselle will pardon my momentary weakness.”

She smiled happily as she looked at me.

“Oh, yes, Monsieur,” she answered softly; “I think I could find it in my heart to pardon a much more serious offence,” and her face grew rosy with sudden blushes, in fear, doubtless, that she had said too much. I could guess that she had seen little of the world, and that its strangeness frightened her.

Her companion forestalled me before I could find words for a reply.

“May I ask the name of our rescuer? We shall wish always to remember it with gratitude.”

“Paul de Marsan,” I answered simply.

He started, and I saw the girl’s face turn white.

“Liege to the Comte de Cadillac?” he asked quickly.

I bowed.

“I came to Montauban to see him,” I said, wondering at his emotion.

“But must you see him?” he persisted.

“At the earliest moment.”

He waved his hand with a gesture of despair and stood for a little time, his head bent in thought.

“M. de Marsan,” he began at last, “I fear we have done you ill service by calling you here to-day——”

But I stopped him before he could say more.

“Ill service!” I cried. “Ill service to give my sword a chance at three consummate scoundrels, and me an opportunity of meeting Mademoiselle! Do me a thousand such ill services, Monsieur!”

His was a merry spirit when no danger threatened, and I saw a jest spring to life in his eyes.

“A chance to meet a thousand pretty girls?” he asked.

But he was not to catch me so.

“On the contrary, a thousand chances to meet Mademoiselle,” I answered boldly, though the boldness was no deeper than the lips, and from the corner of my eye I saw the girl blush hotly.

He glanced from me to her and back again. The mirth died out of his face, as heat from a bed of ashes, and left it cold and gray.

“I fear that may not be, Monsieur,” he said gravely. “Our way is not your way, as you will soon know for yourself. But, at least, I can give you a friend in place of the one you have lost here in our service.”

He signed to Claire, and she ran to an adjoining room, returning in a moment with a sword in a scabbard of stout leather.

“Gird him,” he said.

She came to me shyly, and taking the old scabbard from my belt, clasped the new one there. I trembled at the touch of her fingers, and gripped my hands behind me to keep my arms from about her. I could see the red blood surging in waves over cheek and neck as I looked down at her, but only when she had finished the task did she lift her eyes to mine for an instant. What eyes they were—dark, lustrous, with the white soul looking out!

“Draw your blade,” commanded the other.

As I obeyed and its polished sides caught the firelight I saw it was no ordinary weapon.

“Test it,” he said.

She came to me shyly

I bent it to left and right. It gave in my hands like some living thing.

“’Twill take a stout coat of mail to turn it aside,” he said. “’Tis a Toledo.”

I flushed with joy at possessing such a treasure and tried to stammer my thanks, but he cut me off.

“There, there,” he said, not unkindly. “Keep your thanks. I doubt you will soon find you have little enough cause for gratitude. But ’tis the utmost I can do for you, for ’tis very unlike we shall ever meet again.”

“But your name,” I stammered. “Surely I may know your name.”

He hesitated a moment, then shook his head impatiently, as though casting some weakness from him.

“My name is of small moment,” he said. “You may call me Duval. That will serve as well as any other.”

“But, Monsieur,” I protested, “I hope to see you many times again—you and Mademoiselle,” and I stole a glance at her, but her eyes were fixed on the floor.

Duval came to me and took my hand.

“Believe me, M. de Marsan,” he said earnestly, “I honor you and value your friendship highly, but for your own sake you must not meet us again. Indeed, ’twill do you little good to try, since by to-morrow we shall be far from here, in a country it were death for you to penetrate.”

I gazed at him, too astonished to reply.

“I will ask you one more favor,” he added. “Will you assist me in carrying yonder fellow to the bed? We must give him a chance, if he hath a spark of life left in him.”

“Willingly,” I answered, and between us we raised the man, who lay where he had fallen, and stretched him on the couch. He gave no sign of life and I thought him done for, but when the doublet was stripped from his breast I saw that the blood was still slowly oozing from the wound which my sword had made. Duval hesitated an instant and then lifted the mask from his face. I had never seen the man before, but he had a strong, bold countenance, with something of rough power in it.

“That was the master against whose cuirass you broke your sword, M. de Marsan,” remarked Duval, and then as he met my inquiring glance he added, “Believe me, I appreciate your courtesy, Monsieur, in keeping back the questions which must be on your lips; but ’tis a matter you are ignorant of, even were I at liberty to explain it. And now I must ask you to leave us, for we have much to do.”

“We will meet again,” I said earnestly as I took his hand.

But he merely shook his head.

“Claire will accompany you to the street,” he said, and turned away to his disordered desk.

I followed her without a word along the hallway and down the dark stair; but at the foot I caught her hand and held it.

“Can it be, Mademoiselle,” I asked, “that this is adieu? Surely you do not believe so!”

“I fear I must believe so, Monsieur,” she answered softly. “Only I wish myself to thank you for your gallantry and courage. They were given to a good cause.”

“And will be given again to the same cause!” I cried. “I warn you, Mademoiselle, that I shall not submit so tamely to this decree of separation.”

She pressed my fingers gently and withdrew her hand.

“Come,” she said, “I must return,” and she went on across the little court and to the gate, which still hung open as we had left it. “Adieu, Monsieur,” she added, and held out her hand again.

I raised it to my lips and kissed it.

“It is not adieu,” I said. “I will not have it so. I shall see you again many times,” but as I looked into her eyes I felt my certainty slipping from me, and with it my self-control.

Perhaps she read my thought, for she drew her hand away and made ready to close the gate.

“Adieu, Monsieur,” she repeated, and I saw that her eyes were bright with tears.

I sprang to her and caught both her hands in mine.

“But, Claire,” I cried, “at least, tell me that you are sorry; tell me that you care; tell me that you would not have it so!”

She looked up into my face and her lips were quivering.

“I have had many disappointments,” she said. “One more will matter little. You must go, Monsieur. To detain me here is to endanger both of us.”

“As you will,” I said, a little bitterly, and I dropped her hands and turned to the gate. “Only in this, Mademoiselle, you shall not be disappointed. I swear it. Au revoir.”

I stepped through to the street and turned with bared head and trembling hands for a last glimpse of her. For an instant she held the gate half open and gazed into my eyes. Then she shut it fast, the bar dropped into place, and I heard her footsteps slowly cross the court.