“We are going to get you into bed, and dress the wound in your side,” said my father cheerily.  “I hope that at daybreak you will be sleeping soundly.”

“The cut is a bagatelle, monsieur, and I must to the road again.  A murrain on those rascally bandits!”

“At least you will be none the worse for an hour’s rest,” said my father, humouring his fancy.  “Edmond, get off his boots, and do it gently:  we must keep this wound from bleeding afresh.”

Between us we removed his clothes, and in spite of his protests got him into bed, when my father bathed and bandaged his side, saying, “It looks worse than it really is.  Now, a cup of hot broth, and you should sleep comfortably.”

“The broth will be welcome, monsieur, but I have no time for sleep.  An hour lost here may plunge thousands of good Frenchmen into mourning.”

I thought at first the pain had turned his brain; but he spoke sensibly enough, and appeared deeply in earnest.

“Can we help you?” my father asked.  “It will be a week yet before you are able to sit in the saddle.  Do you know me?”

“Yes,” said the other, and his face brightened, “you are the Sieur Le Blanc.  I have seen you at Rochelle with the Admiral.”

“Then you know I am to be trusted!  Mind, I have no wish to pry into your business; but perhaps we can be of service.  Are you travelling far?”

“A week’s ride,” groaned the man; then, raising himself in bed, he said, “Monsieur, I must go forward!”

“Pshaw, man, you talk nonsense!  You haven’t sufficient strength to carry you across the room, and the wound in your side would start bleeding before you reached the courtyard.  Come, throw aside your fears; I make no secret of my friendship for Gaspard de Coligny, and it is easy to guess you have fought under his banner before now.  But here is Jacques with the broth!  Drink this, and afterwards we will talk.”

I raised him up while he drank, and presently he said, “Monsieur, if I rested till midday I should be strong enough.”

“A week at the least,” my father replied, “and even then a score of miles would overtax your strength.”

After lying quietly for a few minutes, he whispered, “Monsieur, make the door fast.  Now, hand me my doublet.  A murrain on the knaves who brought me to this!  A knife, monsieur, and slit the lining.  Do you feel a packet?  ’Tis a small one.  Ah, that is it.  Look, monsieur, at the address.”

“The Admiral!” said my father with a start of surprise, “and he is at Tanlay.  Man, it will be a month before you can reach Tanlay; and the packet is marked ‘All speed!’ Do you know the purport of the message?”

“It conveys a warning, monsieur, and it will arrive too late.  The Guises and the Queen-Mother have laid their plans; the Loire is guarded along its banks, and the troops are collecting for a swoop on Tanlay.”

“And Conde is at Noyers!”