The litter, borne by two servants, now entered the house. The host and his wife were standing on the steps, whilst the unhappy man seemed to suffer dreadful pain and yet to be concerned only to know if he was followed by the monk. At sight of this pale, bleeding man, the wife grasped her husband’s arm. “Well, what’s the matter?” asked the latter, “are you going to be ill just now?” “No, but look,” replied the hostess, pointing to the wounded man; “I ask you if you recognize him?” “That man—wait a bit.” “Ah! I see you know him,” exclaimed the wife; “for you have become pale in your turn.” “Truly,” cried the host, “misfortune is coming on our house; it is the former executioner of Bethune.” “The former executioner of Bethune!” murmured the young monk, shrinking back and showing on his countenance the feeling of repugnance which his penitent inspired. Monsieur d’Arminges, who was at the door, perceived his hesitation. “Sir monk,” said he, “whether he is now or has been an executioner, this unfortunate being is none the less a man. Render to him, then, the last service he can by any possibility ask of you, and your work will be all the more meritorious.” The monk made no reply, but silently wended his way to the room where the two valets had deposited the dying man on a bed. D’Arminges and Olivain and the two grooms then mounted their horses, and all four started off at a quick trot to rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just as the tutor and his escort disappeared in their turn, a new traveler stopped on the threshold of the inn. “What does your worship want?” demanded the host, pale and trembling from the discovery he had just made. The traveler made a sign as if he wished to drink, and then pointed to his horse and gesticulated like a man who is brushing something. “Ah, _diable!_” said the host to himself; “this man seems dumb. And where will your worship drink?” “There,” answered the traveler, pointing to the table. “I was mistaken,” said the host, “he’s not quite dumb. And what else does your worship wish for?” “To know if you have seen a young man pass, fifteen years of age, mounted on a chestnut horse and followed by a groom?” “The Viscount de Bragelonne? “Just so.” “Then you are called Monsieur Grimaud?” The traveler made a sign of assent. “Well, then,” said the host, “your young master was here a quarter of an hour ago; he will dine at Mazingarbe and sleep at Cambrin.” “How far is Mazingarbe?” “Two miles and a half.” “Thank you.” Grimaud was drinking his wine silently and had just placed his glass on the table to be filled a second time, when a terrific scream resounded from the room occupied by the monk and the dying man. Grimaud sprang up. “What is that?” said he; “whence comes that cry?” “From the wounded man’s room,” replied the host. “What wounded man?” “The former executioner of Bethune, who has just been brought in here, assassinated by Spaniards, and who is now being confessed by an Augustine friar.”