The lieutenant half rose, but the stranger stayed him with a laugh and a wave of his hand. Then, with a hurried word in Lorgnac’s ear, he turned and came toward us with quick, firm steps. He was splashed with mud, his corselet was seamed and scarred with lines of fresh rust, and the long red plume in his hat hung limply down. He looked as one who had ridden far and hard, and he came toward us with an indescribable swagger, his sword in the loop of his arm, and clinking the rowels of his huge spurs. “’Tis Richelieu!” said Sancerre; and Marcilly, who had stepped back to my side on seeing him, pressed my arm as he whispered: “My friend of the forest of Châtillon.” We thought he would have come right up to us, and Jean stepped as far into the shadow as possible, but we were mistaken. Whistling low to himself, Richelieu stopped before a side door. It opened to his touch, and with a quick glance at us he was gone. “So ‘The Monk’ is back,” said Sancerre, using the nickname by which this formidable soldier was known, for he had once held orders. “The Carabiniers have been without their captain for a week.” “Some Devil’s errand,” grumbled Cipierre; “never did Antony de Richelieu look so but there was evil afoot.” “I could throw a little light on that, I fancy, if there was time,” said Marcilly, and as he spoke we came to the door of the ante-chamber. Lorgnac had risen to his feet and saluted. “Is Her Majesty alone, Lorgnac?” asked Cipierre. “I relieved de Billy but a moment ago, and since I came no one has passed in or out, Monsieur le Vicomte, except Richelieu,” replied the young soldier, “but there are doors within doors behind me, and I cannot say. The Italian is within, however, and he may be able to inform you.” “Bentivoglio?” Lorgnac nodded, and stepped aside to let us pass.