The sergeant wheeled his horse about, his troop wheeled with him. They were starting off, when he reined up again. “You, monsieur!” he called over his shoulder. In a bound Andre-Louis was beside his stirrup. “We are in quest of a scoundrel named Andre-Louis Moreau, from Gavrillac, a fugitive from justice wanted for the gallows on a matter of sedition. You’ve seen nothing, I suppose, of a man whose movements seemed to you suspicious?” “Indeed, we have,” said Andre-Louis, very boldly, his face eager with consciousness of the ability to oblige. “You have?” cried the sergeant, in a ringing voice. “Where? When?” “Yesterday evening in the neighbourhood of Guignen...” “Yes, yes,” the sergeant felt himself hot upon the trail. “There was a fellow who seemed very fearful of being recognized ... a man of fifty or thereabouts...” “Fifty!” cried the sergeant, and his face fell. “Bah! This man of ours is no older than yourself, a thin wisp of a fellow of about your own height and of black hair, just like your own, by the description. Keep a lookout on your travels, master player. The King’s Lieutenant in Rennes has sent us word this morning that he will pay ten louis to any one giving information that will lead to this scoundrel’s arrest. So there’s ten louis to be earned by keeping your eyes open, and sending word to the nearest justices. It would be a fine windfall for you, that.” “A fine windfall, indeed, captain,” answered Andre-Louis, laughing. But the sergeant had touched his horse with the spur, and was already trotting off in the wake of his men. Andre-Louis continued to laugh, quite silently, as he sometimes did when the humour of a jest was peculiarly keen. Then he turned slowly about, and came back towards Pantaloon and the rest of the company, who were now all grouped together, at gaze. Pantaloon advanced to meet him with both hands out-held. For a moment Andre-Louis thought he was about to be embraced. “We hail you our saviour!” the big man declaimed. “Already the shadow of the gaol was creeping over us, chilling us to the very marrow. For though we be poor, yet are we all honest folk and not one of us has ever suffered the indignity of prison. Nor is there one of us would survive it. But for you, my friend, it might have happened. What magic did you work?” “The magic that is to be worked in France with a King’s portrait. The French are a very loyal nation, as you will have observed. They love their King--and his portrait even better than himself, especially when it is wrought in gold. But even in silver it is respected. The sergeant was so overcome by the sight of that noble visage--on a three-livre piece--that his anger vanished, and he has gone his ways leaving us to depart in peace.” “Ah, true! He said we must decamp. About it, my lads! Come, come...”