away from him the thought that this could be the case; refused to believe, or to let the belief creep into his mind, that the crafty, discarded lover of De Kéroualle did not know of the robbery he was committing. "And," he meditated also, "even should that be the case, there is still the woman to make my account with. She, at least, knew the wrong she was doing. I must find her." But, when he arrived at this point, he had to cease his self-communing, for he knew not in what way vengeance could be wreaked on her. The rapier by his side was powerless against a woman-some other form of punishment must be sought for!
Once on their long ride-nay, more than once, indeed half a dozen times-he had turned over and over again in his mind the Marquis's strange agitation in connection with all that was of so much importance to him-the manner in which he had opened his eyes in the tavern, the startled look in them when the spy had mentioned De Bois-Vallée's name; also he recalled again and again the lad's start when he told his own name; his pallor and nervousness before the picture of that cousin whom he spoke of as having been "cared" for by his mother. "Cared for," Andrew Vause mused again, "cared for. In the past, not now!" And he asked himself: "What had that red-haired, blue-eyed cousin done to cease to be cared for by his kinswoman any longer? Unless he were dead!"
At last he could refrain no more, and as, one day, they were passing through the soft rolling country between Verdun and Metz he spoke to Debrasques, saying:
"The cousin whose portrait I saw in your hall in Paris on the night when first you welcomed me, and, afterwards, when Madame la Marquise made me an honoured guest, ere we set forth on this journey-is he dead, Debrasques? You spoke of him as one for whom her ladyship had cared. Was it death that put an end to that care? It must be so, I should suppose," and as he uttered the question he turned his eyes on the boy by his side.
Yet only to see again the look he had seen before-half terror, half supplication! – in the other's face; to note also that the bright boyish colour, beneath the brown which had come on his cheeks during their long march, paled and disappeared at once as on that night. Wherefore Andrew cursed himself for his ill-bred curiosity as he witnessed its effect.
"No," Valentin Debrasques said, after a moment's pause, during which he leant forward and busied himself about something with his charger's bridle. "No. He is not dead."
"Forgive me," said Andrew gently. "Forgive me. I have pained you."
"Nay. Nay. Never! But-but-he is a villain, and that picture should not be there, would not be there, an I had my way. But my mother still believes, hopes-tries to believe he is not so; therefore it has not been removed."
"I am sorry," Andrew answered. "Sorry my impertinent curiosity-"
"Nay," Debrasques said. "Surely you-but-no matter." Then he exclaimed, "How good you are!"
"Good!" said Andrew, looking at him again, and wondering what he meant; pondering, indeed, whether some stroke of the sun that had beaten fiercely on them since they left Paris had not touched his brain. "Good! Good!"
"For-for-your forbearance, I mean." Yet, as he spoke, there was a look of bewilderment on the young and troubled face that mystified the other. And doubly mystified him because he had seen it there before, on the night when first the portrait met his view; also he had seen it on the face of the Marquise as he had spoken in courteous, easy tones to her during the intermediate days ere they set out. A look of bewilderment on both their faces, as though expressing surprise that he should be invariably so much at his ease and so gentle with them. At least that was how he had read those looks, and, reading them thus, had found further proof for wonderment.
"My forbearance!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," the other stammered, evidently much distressed, though still with the perplexity growing greater in his face. "Yes, I mean to refrain from questioning further. We-I-never mention him. I hate him and despise him. I wonder you-"
"I will never," said Andrew, "wound you on that score again, at least. Henceforth I am dumb." And, to his surprise, as he spoke Debrasques put out his gauntletted hand and grasped his own with a glance of unspeakable gratitude.
Which only added further to Andrew Vause's mystification and caused him to ride on still more deeply wrapped in meditation.
And now as they drew near Neustadt at nightfall and began to speculate on what accommodation might be obtained at the inns, if any-since they knew that two regiments of Dragoons, "the King's" and "The Queen's" were marching ahead of them to reinforce Turenne, who had suffered heavily at Sintzheim-they observed that the whole heavens appeared on fire and were suffused with a bright red colour. Also, into the vast vault thus tinged, there shot up great flecks of flame of a deeper, more crimson hue, with sometimes amid them saffron-coloured ones, while, plain against the still lingering remnants of daylight, great masses of dun-coloured smoke arose.
"Grand Dieu!" exclaimed Debrasques, while all, including dragoons and those who attended to the led horses, looked on amazed. "It must be the city of Spires in flames. Who has done it-Turenne or De Bournonville, who commands against him?"
"Nay," said Andrew, "no city that, in flames, my lad. Rather a dozen-if there were so many around! No city, I say. See where the flames themselves fly up to the reddened sky; observe. They rise from all points ahead of us, and, in some cases, are miles apart. Debrasques," he added solemnly, "I have seen such as this before. It has been done here before, too, I know; Tilly did it fifty years ago, and-"
"What-what-what is it?" the boy asked, the two campaigns he had followed never having shown him aught of this nature.
"This. One of the two armies has withdrawn-it must be the Imperialists, since Turenne beat them at Sintzheim-the other is destroying the land, so that no more shall his enemy find shelter nor food enough for a grasshopper. That is what it means. Yet," he exclaimed, as now the flames and the dun-coloured smoke mounted more fiercely still into the crimsoned vault above, "it is horrible, awful! My God it is awful!"
As he spoke, there soon followed confirmation of his words. Down the poplar-fringed road along which they were proceeding, there came towards them in the night the sound of many horses' hoofs rushing madly, swiftly; and in an instant Andrew had warned Debrasques to draw aside his dragoons and followers. "We know not yet who or what they are," he said; "best stand aside and see."
On came the others even as the suggestion was followed, and-although in the gloom of the night that had closed in under the trees-they knew at once by the voice of the leader that they were of their own side. Then an officer, followed by two dozen soldiers, would almost have passed them when, beneath the poplars, he saw the headpieces of the dragoons and the glisten of their trappings, and, as he did so, he roared an order to his own men to halt, after which, amidst the rattle and clang of bridles and of scabbards against spurs and horses' flanks, he called out in French:
"Speak-what troops are those?" while, as he did so, Andrew felt Debrasques' hand clutch his arm convulsively-felt, too, that hand tremble on his sleeve.
"Answer him, answer him," he said, "or he may charge us. They are treble our number."
And from the Marquis's lips there came, in response to the demand, the words:
"A detachment of Listenai's dragoons and an English officer about to join the Marshal."
"Whose voice is that?" called back the other in a tone of astonishment.
"The voice of Valentin, Marquis Debrasques."
"Ha! I thought so. So you are here, are you? Well, I have no time to waste on you. Where are the dragoons of the 'King's' and 'Queen's' regiments?"
"Ahead of us," answered the deep voice of Andrew, he noticing that Debrasques
