This voice also I knew, as well as Maugert's. It was that of De Berquin. I ran to the gate and heard him tell Maugert, who covered him with an arquebus, match lighted, that he was seeking the abode of the Sieur de la Tournoire, for whom he had important news. "Let him come, Maugert!" I called from the gate. I stepped back into the courtyard. At that moment Blaise came out of the chateau. Very soon De Berquin strode in through the gateway, followed by the burly Barbemouche. Both looked wayworn and fatigued. "Monsieur de la Tournoire," said De Berquin, saluting me with fine grace and a pleasant air,--he never lost the ways of a gallant gentleman,--"I have come here to do you a service." So! thought I, does he really intend to seek my confidence and try to betray me, after all? Admirable self-assurance! I was about to answer, when Barbemouche put in; "So you, whom it was in my power to kill a hundred times over that night, are the very Tournoire whom I chased from one end of France to the other eight years ago?" And he looked me over with a frank curiosity. "Yes," I said, with a smile, "after you had destroyed the home of my fathers. And at last you have found me." "I was but the servant of the Duke of Guise then," said Barbemouche. At this point Blaise, who, in all our experiences with De Berquin and his henchmen, had not while sober come within hearing of Barbemouche's voice, or within close sight of him, stepped up and said, coolly: "Let me see the face that goes with that voice." And he threw up the front of Barbemouche's hat with one hand, at the same time raising the front of his own with the other. The two men regarded each other for a moment. "Praise to the God of Israel, we meet again!" cried Blaise, in a loud voice, catching the other by the throat. "Who are you?" demanded Barbemouche. "The man on whom you left this mark,"--and Blaise pointed to his own forehead,--"in Paris on St. Bartholomew's night thirteen years ago." "Then I did not kill you?" muttered Barbemouche, glaring fiercely at Blaise. "God had further use for me," said Blaise. De Berquin and I both stepped aside, perceiving that here was a matter in which neither of us was concerned. But we looked on with some interest, deferring until its adjustment our own conversation. "Then it was you who spoiled my appearance for the rest of my days!" cried Barbemouche. "May you writhe in the flames of hell!"