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Huguenot: A Tale of the French Protestants

<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2><h3>UNEXPECTED COMPANIONS.</h3> The two horsemen rode to the village at a quick rate, but then slackened their pace, and passed through the single little street at a walk. The scene, however, was now changed; the children were no longer playing before the doors; from out of the windows of some of the cottages streamed forth the reddish light of a resin candle; from others was heard issuing the sound of a psalm, sung before the inhabitants retired to rest; and at the doors of others again appeared a peasant returned late from the toil of the day, and--as is so natural to the heart of man--pausing in the thickening twilight to take one more look of the world, before the darkness of night shut it out altogether. A star or two was beginning to appear in the sky; the bats were flitting hither and thither through the dusk; and, though it was still warm and mild, every thing betokened the rapid approach of night. From the village the Count rode on, relapsing, after having spoken a few words to his servant, into the same meditative mood which had possessed him on his way to Auron. He hastened not his pace, and after he had gone about three miles complete darkness surrounded him. There was no moon in the sky; the road by which he had come, steep, stony, and irregular, required full light to render it safe for his horse's knees; and, after the animal had tripped more than once, the Count struck into a path to the right, which led by a little détour into the high road from Paris to Poitiers. High roads, however, in those days were very different things from those which they have now become; and there is scarcely a parish road in England, or a commercial road in France, which is not wider, more open, and better in every respect than the high road we speak of was at that time. When he had gained it, however, the Count went on more easily till he arrived at the spot where it entered one of the large woods which supplied the inhabitants with fuel in a country unproductive of coal. There, however, he met with an obstruction which he had not at all anticipated. As he approached the outskirts of the wood, there was a sudden flash to the right, and a ball whistled across the Count's path, but without hitting either himself or his servant. He was too much accustomed to scenes in which such winged messengers of death were common, to be startled by the shot, but merely muttering to himself, "This is unpleasant; we must put a stop to this so near Morseiul," he considered whether it would be better for him to push his horse forward or to go back upon the open road. But the matter was settled for him by others; for he was surrounded in a moment by five or six men, who speedily pulled him off his horse, though he made no effort to resist where resistance he saw would be vain, and then demanded his name in an imperative and threatening manner. He heard, however, at the same time, the galloping of the horse of Jerome Riquet, who had remained some twenty or thirty yards behind him; and perfectly certain, therefore, that very efficient aid would soon be brought to deliver him, he determined to procrastinate as far as possible, in the hopes of taking some of the plunderers who had established themselves so near his dwelling. "I cannot see," he said, "what your business can be with my name; if it is my money that you want, any that I have upon my person you can take.--My good friend, you will oblige me by not holding my collar so tight; it gives me a feeling of strangulation, which, as you may perhaps some day know, is not very pleasant." The man who held him, and who seemed the principal of the group, did not appear to be at all offended at being reminded of what might be the end of his exploits, but let go his collar, laughing and saying, "You are merry! however, your money we shall take as our own right. It is fair toll you know; and your name we must have too, as being officers of the King's highway, if not of the King, we have certainly a right to ask for passports." "Heaven forbid that I should deny any of your rights," replied the Count; "my money I will give you with all my heart: but my name is my own, and I do not choose to give that to any one." "Well, then, we must take you where we can see your face," replied the other. "Then if we know you, well and good, you shall go on; if we do not know you, we shall find means to make you speak more clearly, I will warrant." "He is one of them! he is one of them, be you sure," replied a second voice. "I would tie him to a tree and shoot him at once out of the way." "No, no," rejoined the first; "I think I know his tongue. It is Maître Nicolas, the notary--not a bad man in his way. Bring him along, and his horse too; we shall soon see." Though the Count, perhaps, might not consider himself flattered by being taken for Maître Nicolas the notary, he began to perceive that there was something more in the conduct of these men than the common desire of plunder, some personal motive either of revenge or enmity; and, as he well knew that he was generally loved throughout the neighbourhood, he had no apprehensions as to the result regarding himself. He was anxious, however, to see more of his captors' proceedings, and therefore accompanied them without any effort to undeceive them as to who he was. They led him along for about a quarter of a mile down the high road through the wood, then struck into a narrower path to the right, only in use for wood-carts, and then again took a foot path, which brought them to a spot where a bright light was seen glimmering through the trees before them. It was evident that some wider road than that which they were following at the moment led also to the point to which it tended, for the sound of horses' feet was heard in that direction, and a creaking, as if of some heavy carriage wheels. "There is brown Keroual," said one of the men, "come back from the other end of the wood, and I'll bet you two louis to two deniers that he's got hold of them. Don't you hear the wheels? I think we might let you go," he added, turning towards the Count, and trying to get a full glance of his face by the light that flashed through the leaves. At that moment, however, one of his companions replied, "Take him on, take him on! You can't tell what wheels they are. They may be sending away those women." This seemed to decide the matter somewhat to the satisfaction of Albert de Morseiul, who was not a little anxious to witness what was going on; and the men accordingly led him forward through the bushes, which partially obstructed the path, till coming suddenly to an open space under a high sandy bank, he found himself in the midst of a scene, upon which we must pause for a moment. There was a large wood fire in the midst of the open space; and both to the right and left led away a small road, deeply channelled by the wheels of sand carts. The high bank above was crowned with the fine trees of the wood, amongst the branches and stems of which the light of the fire and of one or, two torches lost itself; while the fuller light below shone upon three or four curious groups of human beings. One of these groups was gathered together near the fire, and consisted of seven men, some lying down, some standing, all of them well armed, and some of them with carbines in their hands; their dress in a great degree resembled that of the English soldiery at the time of Cromwell, though the usurper had been dead, and the fashion of such clothing gone out, about twenty years. A few of them had their faces bare, but the greater part had something drawn over their countenance so as completely to disguise it. In general, this covering was a mere piece of silk or cloth with slits made for the eyes, but in two instances a regular mask appeared. At a little distance from the fire, farther under the bank, sat two ladies, one richly habited in the taste of that day, and with the upper part of the face covered by the common black velvet riding mask, the other dressed more simply, but still handsomely, with a large watch hanging by her side, and two or three rings still upon her hands, notwithstanding the company in which she was found. There were some large grey cloaks spread upon the ground beneath them, to protect them apparently from the damp of the ground; and standing near, leaning on a musket, apparently as a guard over them, was one of the same fraternity that appeared by the side of the fire. At some distance up the road to the right, a carriage was seen stationary, with the horses taken out and cropping the grass by the side; but the eyes of the whole party under the bank were turned to the other side, where, at the entrance of the road into the open space, appeared a second carriage drawn by four mules, which had just been led up by a party of the banditti, who were the first that had appeared mounted. From the door of the vehicle, which was now brought to a halt, its tenants were in the very act of descending, with fear and unwillingness written upon their countenances. The two first that came forth were ecclesiastics of the Catholic church: the first, a man who might well be considered as remarkably ugly, had his countenance not been expressive, and its expression indicative of considerable talent. The second was a much handsomer man in every respect, but with a keen, sly, fox-like aspect, and a constant habit of biting his nether lip, of which he could not divest himself, even at a moment when, to judge by his countenance, he was possessed by extraordinary fear. After them came another man, dressed as a layman, one or two domestics, and a fat inferior priest, with a dirty and a greasy countenance, full of nothing but large black eyes and dull stupidity. While they were thus making their unwilling exit from the carriage, several of those who had brought them thither were mounted upon different parts of the vehicle, busily cutting off, opening, and emptying various valises, trunk-mails, and other contrivances for conveying luggage. The attention of the other actors in the scene was so much taken up by this group, that no one seemed to notice the arrival of the party which brought the Count thither; and though the man who had led it had resumed a grasp of his collar, as if to demonstrate that the Count was the captive of his bow and spear, he was himself so intensely occupied in looking at the proceedings round the carriage, that he paused close to the wood for several minutes. At length, however, he recollected himself, and, by advancing two or three steps with those that followed, called the attention of the rest from the carriage and its ejected tenants to the new captive that had been brought in. The light flashed full upon the Count as the man held him; but the moment the eyes of the group around the fire were turned upon him, several voices exclaimed in a tone of surprise and consternation, "The Count! The Count! The Count de Morseiul!" No sooner did the first of the ecclesiastics, who had descended from the carriage, hear the exclamation, than he turned his eyes in that way also, ran forward, and, catching the Count by the hand, exclaimed, "Monsieur de Morseiul, my dear friend, I claim your protection. These men threaten to murder me!" "Monsieur Pelisson," replied the Count, "I greatly grieve that I can give you no protection. I am a prisoner to these men, as you see, myself, and, were I not of another creed, might, for aught I know, have to apply to you to shrive me! for they have threatened to tie me to a tree, and shoot me likewise." "Good God! this is very horrible," cried Pelisson, in utter terror and consternation. "Pray, Monsieur de St. Helie," he exclaimed, turning to the other ecclesiastic who followed, "Pray, exhort these men--you are so eloquent!" "I--I--I--I can exhort nobody," stammered forth the other, trembling in every limb. A change, however, was working itself in their favour; for the moment that the Count's name had been publicly announced, a great degree of agitation and movement had taken place amongst the robbers. Those who had been lying down started up, those who had been plundering the carriage abandoned their pillage, and joined their companions by the fire; the man who had grasped the Count let go his hold, as if he had burnt his hand, and a rapid consultation evidently took place amongst the rest, which the Count himself was not a little surprised to see, as, amongst those whose faces were uncovered, there was not a single individual whom he could recognise as having ever beheld before. The movement of Pelisson, however, and the words which passed between him and the Count again called their attention in that direction from the consultation which was going on. Two men, both masked, separated themselves from the rest, one a very tall and powerful man, somewhat richly though not tastefully dressed; the other a short, broad-made, sturdy looking person, who only wanted the accompaniment of a bandoleer over his buff coat to be a perfect representation of the parliamentary soldier of Great Britain. The lesser man took upon himself to be spokesman, though they both advanced direct towards the Count. "We are sorry for what has happened, Monsieur de Morseiul," he said; "we had not the slightest intention of disturbing you upon your road, and it was this fellow's stupidness and the darkness of the night that has caused the mistake. I have only to say, as I said before, that we are sorry for it, and that you are quite at liberty to go when you like." The Count's determination was taken in a moment. "I am happy to hear," he said, "that you are sorry for one offence at least against the laws of the country; but, in regard to my going, if I go, I have not the slightest intention of going alone. I am not a person to abandon my companions in distress, and I must insist upon some of the parties here present being liberated as well as myself." Pelisson looked at him with an imploring glance; the Abbé de St. Helie elapsed his hands together, and gazed anxiously in his face; while the man to whom he had spoken replied in a surly tone,-- "We would fain treat you well, Sir Count, and do you no harm; so go your way in God's name, and do not meddle with what does not concern you, for fear worse come of it. You are not leading the forlorn hope at Maestricht now, remember." "Oh!" said the Count, with a meaning nod of the head, as if the man's allusion had let him into some secret; but ere he could reply further, the taller and more athletic of the two whispered a few words to his companion in a low voice, and the other, after a moment's pause of hesitation, turned once more to the Count and said, "Well, sir, what is it you would have? We respect and love you, and would do much to please you. What do you demand?" "In the first place," replied the Count de Morseiul, speaking very slowly and distinctly, and using as many words as he possibly could, knowing that every moment was something gained by bringing succour nearer; "in the first place, as I am sure that you are too much men of honour, and too courteous in your nature a great deal----" "Come, come, Sir Count," replied the man, interrupting him, "cut your story short. We have honour of our own particular kind; but as to our nature being courteous, it is not. We are neither fools, babies, nor frequenters of the painted chambers of Paris, but freemen of the forest. What I ask is, what do you demand?" "In the first place," replied the Count, taking a step forward towards the spot where the two ladies were sitting, and pointing in that direction with his hand, "in the first place, I demand that you should set those two ladies at liberty!" "They might have been at liberty long ago," replied the man, "if they had chosen to say whence they came and whither they were going. However, go they shall, as you ask it; but I should like to have those rings and that watch first." "Fie," said the Count, "you surely would not touch the trinkets. Their purses, I dare say, have been taken already." "Those were given up at first," replied the man, "and we should have had the watch and rings too if we had not been interrupted by this other affair. Come, pretty one," he added, turning to the younger of the two ladies, who had both risen when they heard the intercession that was made for them, and were gazing on the young Count with eager anxiety, "come, let us see if there be any diamonds amongst those rings, for we must not let diamonds get out of the forest. They are better than gold a great deal." Thus saying, he advanced towards her, and took the small delicate beautiful fingers, on which the rings appeared, in his rough grasp. "I fear, lady," said the Count, who had followed him, "that I cannot protect you farther. We must feel grateful for your being permitted to go at all." "We owe you a deep debt of gratitude as it is, sir," replied the elder lady; and the younger added immediately, "indeed we do: but let them take the rings," she continued, drawing them from her fingers.--"All but one," she added suddenly, "all but one." "What, a wedding-ring," cried the man, with a loud laugh, "or a lover's token, I suppose, for I see no wedding-ring here." "No, sir," she said, drawing up her head somewhat proudly, "but the gift of a mother that loved me, and who is most dear to me still in memory. Pray, let me keep it. This is the ring." "Why, that is worth all the rest," said the man, looking at it. "No, no, my pretty mistress, we must have this." The Count de Morseiul had stood by, somewhat pale, and with a manner which, for the first time, betrayed some degree of agitation. But he now interposed, seeing, by the trembling of her hand, how much emotion the man's words produced upon the young lady, though he could not behold her countenance. "What is the value of the ring?" he demanded of the man. "Why, some twenty louis, I dare say," he replied. "Well, I will give you double the amount for it," said the Count. "I have not the money upon me, for your men have taken all I had; but you can trust me, and I will pay it to any one whom you will send to the château of Morseiul, and pledge my honour they shall come and go in safety, and without inquiry." "Your honour, my Lord Count, is worth the city of Poitiers," replied the man. "There is the ring," and he gave it into the Count's hand. Albert de Morseiul took it, and gazed at it by the fire-light for a moment with some attention, and with some emotion. It was formed of diamonds, and, according to a fashion common in that day, formed the initials, probably of some proper name, C. S., surmounted by a Count's coronet. "Lady," he said, after he had looked at it, "this ring is almost as strong a temptation to me as to our friend here. I long to keep it till its fair owner, once more at liberty, may come to claim it at my hands. That would be ungenerous, however, and so I suppose I must give it back." So saying, he replaced it on her finger, and, with an air of courteous gallantry, raised the small fair hand to his lips. She bent down her head over her hand and his, as if to gaze at the recovered ring, and he felt a warm drop fall from the bright eyes that sparkled through the mask upon it. "And now," he said, turning to the man who had acted as chief of the band, "and now you will let the ladies depart." "Yes," replied the man, "but one of our people must drive them to the place where we tied the lackeys to the trees." "They are safe, upon your honour, though?" said the Count. "Upon my honour they are," answered the man bluffly. "I should like to see the man that would wag a finger at them when I say they are free." "Come then, quick," said the Count, turning to the ladies; "let us not lose the fortunate moment;" and he took her hand to lead her to the carriage, which he had remarked standing farther down the road. But both Pelisson and St. Helie threw themselves in his way, exclaiming aloud, "For God's sake do not leave us! For Heaven's sake do not abandon us!" "No, no," replied the Count. "My good friends," he added, turning to the band, "pray offer these good gentlemen no wrong, at least till my return. Perhaps I can hit upon some terms between you and them, and also tell you a piece of news which will make you change your determination." "Not easily," said the leader; "but we will not harm them till you come back, if you are only going to take the ladies to the carriage. You, Stephen, drive it to the place where the lackeys were left." "I will return instantly," said the Count, and he led the younger lady on, the elder following. Till they reached the carriage, and during a part of the time occupied in tying the horses again to it, all were silent; but at length the younger lady ventured to say, in a low voice,-- "How can I ever thank you, Monsieur de Morseiul?" The Count did not reply to the question, but he said, as he was handing her in,-- "Am I not right? Have we not met before?" "It is years ago," she said, in the same low tone; "but," she added the moment after, just as the man was about to drive away, "we shall meet again, and if we do, say nothing of this meeting, I beseech you; but remember only that I am deeply grateful." The carriage drove away, and the Count remained for a moment listening. He then returned to the mixed group by the fire, where the agitation of terror in the case of the Abbé de St. Helie had worked itself up to such a pitch during his absence, that the tears were streaming copiously from the unhappy man's eyes, while the band that had made him a captive stood round gazing upon him with some contempt, but certainly no appearance of pity. Pelisson, on his part, displayed a greater degree of firmness, remaining with his hands clasped together, and his eyes fixed upon the ground, but without any other sign of fear than some paleness of his countenance, and an occasional movement of the lips, as if he were in prayer. The Count advanced into the midst of the group, and perceiving that the leader of the band into whose hands they had fallen looked to him to speak first, and maintained a sort of dogged silence which augured but ill for the two ecclesiastics, he said, "Now, my good friend, what do you intend to do with these gentlemen?" "I intend," replied the man in a stern tone, "to shoot the two that are standing there without fail, to scourge that black-faced priest by the carriage till he has not a bit of skin on his back, and send the lackeys trooping." "You are of course jesting," said the Count. "You are not a man, I am sure, to commit deliberate murder. But you have frightened them enough.--Let me hear what you intend to do, without a jest." "There has been no jest spoken," replied the man fiercely. "I have told you my intentions, and I shall not change. These two villains have come down into a peaceful province, and amongst a happy people, to bring dissension, and persecution, and hatred amongst us, and they shall taste the first bitter fruits of their own works. I shall certainly not let them escape; and I can tell the old Jesuit Le Tellier, and his tyrant son, Louvois, that they may send as many of such firebrands down as they will; I will do my best to meet them, and extinguish them in their own blood." "I really do not know what you mean," replied the Count. "Monsieur Pelisson, I cannot conceive, from what I know of you, that you are a man to undertake such evil tasks as this good gentleman accuses you of. We of the reformed religion certainly regretted that you had thought fit to fall back into what we consider to be a great error, but we never supposed that you would deal hardly with your reformed brethren." "Neither do I, Count," replied Pelisson, firmly. "It is natural that, having abandoned errors, I should seek to lead others to follow the same course; but no harsh means have I ever practised, no harsh means have I ever counselled. On the contrary, I have advocated gentleness, peace, persuasion, exhortation, kindness, equity, on all occasions. But it is in vain, my good young gentleman," he added, looking at his captors, "it is all in vain. These men are determined to take our blood, and it is in vain to try to stay them; though the retribution which will fall upon them, and I fear, too, upon your own sect, will be awful, when our fate reaches the ears of the King. But it is in vain, as I have said. You have done your best for us, and I thank you from my heart. Bear witness, every one!" he continued, raising his voice, "bear witness, every one, that this noble gentleman, the Count de Morseiul, has no share in the terrible act these men are going to commit, and that he has done his best to save us." "No one will suspect me, Monsieur Pelisson," replied the Count. "But I must yet do something more," he added, believing, not wrongly, that the words and demeanour of Pelisson must have had some effect upon the body of men by whom they were surrounded, and also having some hope now that aid might be at hand. "I must yet do something more, and the time I believe is come for doing it. Listen to me, sir," he added, addressing the man who had led the band throughout. "I beg of you instantly to set these two gentlemen at liberty. I beg of you, both for your own sake and for the sake of the reformed church, to which I belong, and to whose instigations this act will be attributed; and if you will not attend to my entreaties you must attend to my command--I command you to set them at liberty!" "Command!" said the man, with a scornful laugh. "Your commands are likely to be mighty potent here, in the green wood, Sir Count! Now, listen to my commands to you. Make the best of your time and get away from this spot without delay, for if you stay you shall either see those two men shot before your face, or you shall be shot with them. So be quick." "Be it as you say, my good friend," replied the Count coolly. "We shall have bloody work of it; but before you go on, remember, I tell you, you shall take my life with theirs; and let me warn you of another thing which you do not know, the first shot that is fired, the first loud word that is spoken," he added, dropping his voice, "will bring destruction on the heads of all." The man to whom he spoke gazed in his face with some surprise, as if not clearly understanding his meaning, while the rest of the band appeared eagerly whispering together, in a manner which might be interpreted to bespeak some difference of opinion between themselves and their leader. The ear of the Count was quick; while conducting the two ladies to their carriage, he had heard uncertain sounds at a distance, which he had little doubted were occasioned by the arrival of some party from the castle in search of him: while he had spoken to the chief of the band in favour of Pelisson and his companions, he had again caught the same sounds, but more distinctly. He had heard voices, and the trampling of horse, and taking advantage of the momentary hesitation which seemed to affect his opponent, he exclaimed, "Hark!" and lifted up his hand to enjoin silence. The sounds, though distant, were now very distinct, and he added, "You hear! They are in search of me with all the force from the castle. You did not know that my servant was behind when I was taken, and fled to seek succour." His opponent stamped his foot upon the ground, and laid his hand upon a pistol in his belt, fingering the hammer of the lock in a very ominous manner; but the Count once more interposed, anxious on many accounts to prevent a collision. "Come," he said, "I wish to do you no injury. Let us compromise the matter. Set the party you have taken free, and doubtless they will abandon to your care and guidance all the baggage and money that they may possess. What say you, Monsieur Pelisson?" "Willingly, willingly," cried Pelisson, to whom all the last words spoken had been a relief. "Willingly, willingly," cried the Abbé de St. Helie; the tears which had been streaming from fear changing suddenly into the tears of joy, and flowing on as rapidly as ever. Their enemy, however, seemed still to hesitate; but the taller man, whom we have before seen exercising some influence over him, pulled him by the sleeve once more, and whispered to him eagerly for a brief space. He listened to him for an instant, partly turning away his head, then shook himself pettishly free from his grasp, saying, "Well, I suppose it must be so. I will set them free now; but a day of reckoning will come, if they take not a warning from what has passed. Gather all those things together, my men. Each one take something, and let us be off as fast as we can. Stand to your arms, though; stand to your arms, some of you. Those fellows are coming devilish near, and may find their way up here." "They shall not injure you," said the Count. "I break no engagements, even when only implied." At that moment, however, the Abbé de St. Helie, having sufficiently recovered from the terror into which he had been cast to give some thought to what he was about, exclaimed aloud, "But the King's commission--the King's commission! They must not take that;" and rushing towards the baggage he seized a white leather bag, which seemed to contain some especial treasure; but scarcely had he got it in his hand when the chief of their captors snatched it violently from him, and dashed it into the midst of the fire, where he set his foot upon it, as if to insure that it should be burnt, even at the risk of injuring himself. Albert de Morseiul was an officer in the King's service, and had been brought up in his youth with high notions of devoted loyalty and reverence for the royal authority, which even the free spirit of the reformed religion which he professed had not been able to diminish. The insult offered to the monarch's commission then struck him with indignation; and, starting forward, he grasped the man who would have destroyed it by the chest, exclaiming, "Sir, would you insult the King himself?" The man replied not, but strove to keep down his foot upon the packet. The young Count, however, was as powerful in frame as himself, and considerably taller; and, after a momentary struggle, he cast him back, while the Abbé de St. Helie snatched the packet from the flames. What would have been the result of this strife, in which both the robber's blood and that of the young Count were heated, would be difficult to say, for the man had drawn the pistol from his belt, and the click of the lock was plainly heard as he cocked it; but just at that minute the men who had been engaged in stripping the trunk mails of their contents, caught a sight of a party of horsemen coming up the road; and gathering every thing that was most valuable together, they retreated quickly around their leader. Abandoning his contention with the Count, he now promptly formed them into line, collected all the various articles belonging to themselves which were scattered about, and retreated in the direction of the opposite road, offering a firm face of five men abreast, with their carbines cocked, and levelled to the horsemen, who were now coming up thick into the open space where all these events had passed. At the head of the horsemen appeared the Chevalier d'Evran, armed in haste to deliver or avenge his friend; but, as the Count saw that he was now master of the field, and that the robbers were retreating in a very threatening attitude, which might produce bloodshed if they were not immediately shown that no molestation would be offered to them, he took a rapid step or two forward, exclaiming to his own party,-- "Halt, halt! We have come to a compromise before you arrived, and are all at liberty. Thanks, Louis, a thousand thanks, however, for your succour!" The Count's men paused promptly at his command, and the robbers retreated slowly up the other road, facing round every ten or twelve steps, fully prepared for defence, like an old lion pursued by the hunters. In the mean while the Chevalier sprung from his horse, and grasped his friend's hand eagerly. "Why, Albert," he exclaimed, "Albert, this would never do! You who, though one of the rashest officers in the service, had escaped balls and pikes, and bayonets and sabres, to run the risk of being killed by a ditch-fighting freebooter, within a mile or two of your own hearth! Why, when that rascal Jerome there came and told me, I thought I should have gone mad; but I was determined to ride the rascals down like wolves, if I found they had injured you." "Oh, no," replied the Count, "they showed no inclination to injure me; and, indeed, it would appear, as far as I am concerned, that the whole matter was a mistake, for to me they were very respectful. In truth, I seemed to be in wonderful favour with them, and my only difficulty was in saving M. Pelisson and this reverend gentleman here. But, notwithstanding these worthy men's reverence for myself, I must set to work to put this down as soon as ever I come back from Poitiers." "I am sure, Monsieur le Comte," said the Abbé de St. Helie, "we owe you every thing this night, and your conduct shall never be blotted out from our grateful remembrance." The Count bowed low, but somewhat stiffly; then, shaking Pelisson by the hand, he said, "I am happy to have been of any service to you both, gentlemen. My good friend, Monsieur Pelisson, I trust that you will not be any the worse for this short, though unpleasant, sojourn in the forest. I will not ask you and your friend to return and stop awhile at the château of Morseiul, as in all probability Monsieur de St. Helie might not relish abiding under the roof of a heretic. But besides that," he added with a smile, "besides that, in regard to which of course I speak in jest, I doubt not you are anxious to proceed. Morseiul is out of your way, and in an hour and a half you will reach the auberge of Quatremoulins." "But, sir, shall we be safe, shall we be safe?" exclaimed the Abbé de St. Helie, who was now examining the vehicle in which they had been travelling with anxious eyes. "Gracious God!" he exclaimed, ere the Count could answer, "look! there is a ball which has gone through the carriage within an inch of my head!" The Count de Morseiul looked at the Chevalier, and they both laughed. "There is a proverb in England, my good Abbé," said the Chevalier, "that a miss is as good as a mile; but if you will take my advice you will plant yourself just in the same spot again, or put your valise to raise you just opposite the shot-hole, for there are a thousand chances to one that, if you are shot at a thousand times, no bullet ever comes there again." The Abbé did not seem much to like the pleasantry, for in his mind the subject was far too serious a one to admit of a joke; and the Count de Morseiul replied to his former question,--"Depend upon it you are in perfect safety. But to make that more sure, the Chevalier and I will return to Morseiul with only one or two attendants, and send the rest of my men to escort you to the inn. However, gentlemen, if you will take my advice, you will not travel by night any more when you are in this part of the country; for, from what that fellow said, I should suppose the peasantry have got some evil notion of your intended proceedings here, and it might be dangerous to trust yourselves with them too much. There are such things, you must remember, as shooting from behind hedges, and from the tops of banks; and you must not forget that, in this part of the world, where our lanes are cut deep down between the fields, our orchards thick, and our woods many, it is no easy matter to ascertain where there is an enemy. As I take it for granted you are going towards Poitiers, Monsieur Pelisson, I shall most likely see you soon again. We will all accompany you out of the wood, and then you shall have a sufficient escort to ensure your safety." Pelisson thanked him again and again. The trunk mails, and what portion of their contents the robbers had left, were gathered together, the carriage re-loaded, and its human burden placed safely in it. Pelisson and the Abbé de St. Helie, after having ascertained that the injuries inflicted by the fire upon the precious packet in the sheep-skin bag extended no farther than that outer cover, gave the word that they were ready; and moving on in slow procession, the carriage, its denizens, and their escort of cavaliers made their exit from the road, after which the Count and the Chevalier took leave of the others to return to the castle of Morseiul; and thus ended the adventures of the night. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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