Rockhurst instantly halted, and doffing his hat with gallant alertness, glanced up at the square of faint light, against which a woman’s head, leaning forward behind the curving bars, was just visible. “Hist—” The warning sound dropped sibilantly. “Hist!” promptly responded Rockhurst, ready for all emergency. Then through the bars a hand fluttered a second. “_La llave del jardin_,” breathed the timid tones, in a Spanish which even his own foreign ear recognised as more Flemish than Castilian. Upon which something fell with a muffled clang at his feet: the key of the garden door. “My soul…!” responded Rockhurst in his most ardent whisper. His Spanish did not go very far; but he had at least that nodding acquaintance with it which residence in Flanders rendered necessary to a Cavalier. Fortunately, more was not required of him; for the house wall grew blank again with the closing window. But fate had pointed her finger. Stooping, he groped for the key. It was wrapped in a fine kerchief which had a fragrance of angelic water, and he sniffed with amused anticipation ere he thrust it in his breast. He was weighing the heavy key in his hand as Marcelin crept up to him again. “If monseigneur had only deigned to inform me that it was a rendezvous…!” he thought plaintively. “Here am I very foolish, with my basket instead of good cutlass to keep watch over his _bonne fortune_!” The honest fellow’s head was in a complete whirl. That milord should abandon the King for the sake of a lady was milord all over, it was true; nevertheless an astounding proceeding, and milord’s manner of conducting the affair confusing in the extreme. But his master’s next words brought illumination:— “Look you now, Marcelin, did I not tell you Fortune would solve the riddle? Has she not brought us to the most opulent house of the whole row? And if it were not for the fog, her servant, would that sweet lady have mistaken me for her Spanish lover? Come, now, the garden door must lurk in this wall to the right.” He moved on a few steps, running his hand along the brick. Marcelin followed, lost in admiration. “Eh, by the little dog of St. Roch!” he cried, “does monseigneur intend—?” “Certes, my friend, and to make the lady glad of the exchange,” answered the Cavalier in his quiet voice. “Ha, here is the nail-studded wood: here with your lantern.” II CAVALIER AND CAPITAN Even as he spoke, bending to look for the lock, there came along the cobbles of the lane a clink of spurs that rang to the rhythm of a martial tread. And presently a rather husky voice was uplifted into that same conquering lilt—the tune of the marching Spaniards—that had come to Rockhurst’s mind a few moments before.