All this while the old woman, with wringings of the hands and muttered protestations, had hovered round the group like a flustered hen. The stranger who so coolly placed her dwelling at the travellers’ disposal took no notice of her, but the Marquis was puzzled by her behaviour. At this juncture, suddenly remembering that he had a flask of brandy in his holsters, he looked towards the door—now shut—and made a movement as if to go to fetch it. The old woman, following the direction of his gaze, instantly cried out in accents of dismay: “Mon Dieu, Monsieur le Marquis, the horses!” She stopped as suddenly, with a sharp guilty intake of the breath. Gilbert turned in astonishment, conceiving himself addressed, and startled by the use of his title. But the other man too lifted his head sharply from Louis’ breast and glanced up with a frown at the speaker. Then he flashed a look on Gilbert, saw his start of self-betrayal, raised his eyebrows—and the next moment burst out laughing. “There’s but one title between the two of us!” he exclaimed, getting to his feet. “To which of us does it belong?—I fear, Monsieur, that you have not long relinquished yours!” Gilbert looked steadily at the thin, vivid face, with its dark eyes and slender arching brows under chestnut hair, its cleft chin and delicate aquiline nose. Something of charm caught him, something of instinct cried out that this was no spy nor informer, nor even a republican of any kind. And moved by something that was rather chivalry than defiance he said simply: “I have the honour to claim it.” The other instantly capped his avowal by one far more foolhardy. “And I too,” he said, “I am Armand de la Rouërie, at your service.” The old woman gave a stifled scream, and Gilbert gasped, no less with astonishment than at the magnitude of the confidence. “You have paid me the greatest compliment of my life,” he exclaimed, holding out his hand. “My own name is Château-Foix; I am returning from Paris to my home near Chantonnay, and my cousin here—to give you the real truth—was stabbed some days ago in an affray.” The Marquis de la Rouërie wrung his hand warmly. “You are sent by Heaven,” he declared. “Be quiet, Barbette! Monsieur de Château-Foix, half an hour’s talk with you—that is, if you are willing . . . if your views——” “My views,” said Gilbert rather sombrely, “have something changed of late.” “God be praised for that!” broke in a faint voice, and both men, starting, looked down at the quiet and momentarily forgotten figure on the settle. Louis’ eyes were shut, but his own mischievous smile played for an instant about his white lips. La Rouërie bent over him. “My cousin may be an apothecary,” continued the Vicomte, opening his eyes, “but you are a better surgeon, Monsieur . . . le Marquis. Permit me to thank you with all my heart.” “You heard?” ejaculated Gilbert. “Indistinctly,” replied his cousin. “I am prepared not to have heard if Monsieur wishes.”