“In five minutes, M. Capeluche,” announced Jacques, a trifle breathlessly, “a coach and riders will arrive.” “And you, old cock, trot hither from your berry-picking to tell me that bit of famous gossip?” “Ay! I’m an old cock, and many years have passed o’er my head, Monsieur, but it is a head not destined to be removed by a Capeluche, nor yet by the son of a Capeluche.” “Sirrah! Daily I give thanks to the Holy Virgin,” retorted the headsman, “that the delicate skill of a Capeluche is not for the hairy necks of such _canaille_ as you.” “Who knows,” sturdily replied Jacques, “as to the quality or quantity of hair on the neck of one who draws near in yonder coach?” The grunt that left the headsman betrayed his interest. He peered down the road. “What do you mean by that?” Old Jacques permitted himself a toothless grin. It was not often that a Peptonneau villager could stir the equanimity of the great one, whose prerogatives of office entitled him to tithes exacted from towns and monasteries as ruthlessly as those of prince or baron. “The coach, Monsieur,” the loquacious Jacques continued with satisfaction, “is accompanied by three outriders; they are men of the Divine Philippe’s, Monsieur, recently returned from ‘The Foolish Wars’, and wearing on the shoulders of their tunics the sign of the cross, together with——” “A falcon in full flight?” quickly broke in the headsman. “Even so, M. Capeluche. A falcon in full— Now, _regardez vous_, the great man is himself in full flight!” * * * * * If the headsman had in truth rather precipitately taken himself into his dwelling, his absence was of short duration, for he returned in a moment, clad in a scarlet cloak that reached to his knees. At the instant there sounded the call of a bugle, and into sight swung three horsemen, followed by the coach driven at breakneck speed. M. Capeluche took a position midway of the road and presently caught the heads of the horses drawing the coach. His black eyes snapped fire as he noted the quivering flanks of the hard-driven animals. “High honor you do me, M. le Headsman,” cried the driver, leaping to the ground and clapping the palms of his hands against his breeches to relieve them of perspiration. “No honor to you, you puling son of an ass,” retorted Capeluche, crossly. “Hear the Man in Scarlet!” The tallest of the horsemen, a devil-may-care appearing young man whose finely-chiseled features and delicate raiment proclaimed him of noble blood, now stepped to the side of the coach and unlocked the door and opened it. A surpassingly beautiful woman of perhaps twenty-two years, sat within. She had the totally unexpected air of pretty surprise. As she descended, accepting with dainty grace the proffer of the gallant’s arm, her wide-set blue eyes were dazzled by the brilliance of the midday light. “Thank you, Comte de Mousqueton,” she murmured.