“More than twenty-five.” The Musketeers exchanged looks. He did not appear nearly so much. Captain George continued— “Your certificates of baptism and gentle birth?” Again the young man changed colour. He hesitated—he looked down—he seemed ill at ease. “You need not produce these if other particulars are satisfactory,” observed the Captain, with a certain rough sympathy which won him a gratitude he little suspected; far more, indeed, than it deserved. “Reach me that muster-roll, Bras-de-Fer,” continued the officer. “We can put his name down, at least for the present, as a cadet. The rest will come in time. But look you, young sir,” he added, turning sharply round on the recruit, “before going through any more formalities, I have still a few questions to ask. Answer them frankly, or decline to answer at all.” The visitor bowed and stole another look in his questioner’s face. Frank, romantic, impressionable, he had become strangely prepossessed with this manly, soldier-like captain of musketeers—younger in years than himself, yet so many more steps up the social ladder, he thought, than he could now ever hope to reach. “I will answer,” he said, with a hesitation and simplicity almost boyish, yet engaging in its helplessness—“if you will promise not to use my answers to my injury, and to take me all the same.” Captain George smiled good-humouredly. “Once on the roll of the King’s Musketeers,” he replied, “you are amenable to none but his Majesty and your own officers. As we say ourselves, you need fear neither duke nor devil.” The other looked somewhat relieved, and glancing at Bras-de-Fer, observed timidly— “I had a misfortune last night. It was a broil I could not avoid without great dishonour. I killed my adversary, I fear—and—and—he belongs to your company.” “So it is reported to me,” answered the Captain, coolly; “and if you are capable, it may perhaps be your good fortune to find yourself promoted at last into his place.” Beaudésir looked as if he scarcely understood, and Bras-de-Fer gladly seized the opportunity to explain. “You do not know us yet, young man. In a short time you will be better acquainted with the constitution and discipline of the Grey Musketeers. It is our study, you will find, to become the best fencers in the French army. To this end we appoint our fencing-master by competition, and he is always liable to be superseded in favour of a successful adversary. It cost Flanconnade twenty-three duels to obtain his grade, and in his last affair—(pardon—I should say his _last but one_) he killed his man. You, monsieur, have disposed of Flanconnade scientifically, I must admit, and our captain here is likely enough to promote you to the vacant post.” “Horror!” exclaimed Beaudésir, shuddering. “Like the priests of Aricia!” It was now Bras-de-Fer’s turn to be puzzled, but he rose to the occasion. Quaffing the remains of the Medoc, he nodded approvingly, and repeated—