“Oh, he will arrange that easily enough.  The soldiers will all sleep soundly enough after this march; besides, they will not, in all probability, be near his quarters, so he will only have to say that he found you were too ill to continue the journey, and had therefore had you carried to a confrere of his.  You must be under no fear, Rupert, of any evil consequences to anyone, for no one will ever connect you with the convoy.  You will be missed at roll call, but that will go for nothing.  When you are absent again at six o’clock, you will be reported as missing.  Then it will be supposed that you are hid in the city, and a sharp watch will be set at the gates; but after a few days it will be supposed that you have either got over the walls, or that you have gone out disguised as a peasant.  A prisoner of war more or less makes but little difference, and there will never be any fuss about it.”

Soon after dusk on the evening of the 13th of October, Adele de Pignerolles was sitting alone in a large room in the house of Madame de Soissons.  A wood fire was blazing, and even in that doubtful light it might have been seen that the girl’s eyes were swollen with crying.  She was not crying now, but was looking into the fire with a set, determined look in her face.

“I don’t care,” she said; “they may kill me at Saint Marie, but I will never say yes.  Oh, if papa were but here.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a bright-looking waiting maid entered.

“A note, mademoiselle, from Mademoiselle d’Etamps—­and mademoiselle,” and she put her finger mysteriously to her lips, “it is a new lackey has brought it.  I told him to come again in ten minutes for an answer; for I thought it better he should not come in to be looked at by Francois and Jules.”

“Why not, Margot?” Adele asked in great surprise.

“Because, mademoiselle, he seemed to me—­I may be wrong, you know—­but he seemed to me very, very like—­”

“Like whom, Margot?  How mysterious you are.”

“Like the English officer,” Margot said, with an arch nod.

Adele leapt to her feet.

“You must be mad, Margot.  There, light a candle.”

But without waiting, Adele knelt down close to the fire, and broke open the letter.

A flush, even ruddier than that given by the fire, mounted over her face.

“It is him, Margot.  He has come from my father.  Now we are to do what I told you about.  We are to go off tonight under his charge, to your mother’s, my dear old nurse, and there I am to live with you, and be as your cousin, till papa can get me out of the country.”

“And is the young officer to live there till the marquis comes?” Margot asked, slyly.  “He might pass as another cousin, mademoiselle.”

“How foolish you are, Margot, and this is no time for folly.  But listen.  My father says, ’Rupert will be in the street round the corner, with three horses, at eleven o’clock.  You and Margot are to be dressed in the boys’ clothes that I bade you prepare.  Take in bundles two of Margot’s dresses.  Do not be afraid to trust yourself with Rupert Holliday.  Regard him as a brother; he has all my confidence and trust.’”