In the Day of Adversity. John Bloundelle-Burton

name written in it.

      "It was given to me by Susanne's mother on my wedding day, she saying that, though I could not follow the service with it, my children might learn to do so – as they shall! – as they shall!"

      St. Georges took the book – a tiny one – and put it in his pouch also, along with his tablets; then he said to the mousquetaire: "Friend, if you have still a mind to depart, let us set out. Yet I would not take you from your comfortable nook if duty does not make it absolutely necessary for you to go."

      "I will go," the other said, springing to his feet. "All is ready; my horse has rested for two days; at least we can get some distance on our route. Come, monsieur, let us away."

      Therefore St. Georges paid the reckoning due, not forgetting among other things to give the woman's children – who were now all up and ready for their breakfast – some little sums to buy things with; and so he bade the woman farewell, thanking her again and again for her goodness, and promising that he should certainly seek the Sieur de Blecy on his arrival in Paris.

      "Also," he said, as he shook her by the hand, "I shall find some means of letting you know of her welfare. Burgundy is far from Paris, yet there is always continuous passing to and fro from one to the other – you shall hear from me."

      "I hope so," she said, "and, tenez! De Blecy is himself of Burgundy; his old mother lives near here – not a league away – send through him. He corresponds often with her and others. A word to me will reach. Farewell, monsieur; – farewell, mousquetaire. Adieu!"

      Yet the last word was not said; for while the soldier went into the inn yard to fetch the horses and St. Georges brought down from the room she slept in his little child – who prattled in her baby way to him while her soft blue eyes smiled up in his – and wrapped it in his great cloak preparatory to mounting the block before the inn door, she asked:

      "Why, why, monsieur, do you desire that no one should know where she is? Why keep her existence a secret? Surely there are none who would harm so innocent a little thing as that?"

      He paused a moment, looking down at her from his great height as though meditating deeply; then he said:

      "I will trust you fully. I wish her whereabouts – not her existence, that is already known – kept secret until the time comes that either she shall be in safety out of France or I can be ever near to guard and watch over her; for her life – after mine – stands in the path of others' greed – perhaps of others' ambition. My life first, then hers. I know it, have known it long; until a day or so ago I thought none other knew it – "

      "And?" she asked, glancing up at him, while she stole her hand into the folds of his cloak and again softly patted the child's little dimpled cheek – "and – ?"

      "And," he continued, "I am sure now that against her life, or at least her liberty, some attempt will be made – as it will against mine. That," he said, sinking his voice to a whisper, "is why I am recalled to Paris. Farewell!"

      CHAPTER V.

      THE GRAVEYARD

      By the time that the wintry night was about once more to close in upon them they were nearing Aignay-le-Duc, having passed through the village of Baigneux some two or three hours previously.

      A change in the weather had set in; the snow had ceased to fall at last; right in their faces from the north-northwest there blew a cold, frosty wind; from beneath their horses' hoofs there came a crisp sound, which told as plainly as words that the soft, feathery snow was hardening, while the ease with which the animals now lifted their feet showed that the travelling was becoming easier to them every moment.

      "Courage! courage!" exclaimed St. Georges; "if we proceed thus we may reach Chatillon-sur-Seine to-night. What think you, Boussac?"

      On their road the men, as was natural between two comrades of the sword, had become intimate, St. Georges telling the mousquetaire some of that history of his life which will be unfolded as these pages proceed, while the other had in a few words given him his own. His name was Boussac – Armand Boussac – the latter drawn from a little village or town in Lower Berri, wherein his father was a petit seigneur.

      "A poor place, monsieur," he said, "a rock – fortified, however, strongly – and with a castle almost inaccessible except to the crows and hawks. A place in which a man who would see the world can yet scarce find the way to study his fellow-creatures. Ma foi, there are not many there! A priest or two – those always! – some farmers whose fields lie at the foot of the rock, some old crones who, no longer able to earn anything in those fields, are kept until they die by those who can. And on the rock a few soldiers drawn from the regiment of Berri – men who eat their hearts out in despair when sent to garrison it."

      "A cheerful spot, in truth!" said St. Georges, with a smile; "no wonder you left the rock and sought the mousquetaires. And I see by your horse that you are of the black regiment.3 How did you find your way to it?"

      "Easily. I descended once to Clermont, having bade farewell to my father and intending to join the Regiment de Berri, when, lo! as I entered the town, I saw our grand seigneur of Creuse in talk with an officer of the Mousquetaires Noirs. Then as I saluted him he called out to me: 'Boussac! Boussac! what have you crossed the mountains for and come to Clermont?' 'Pardie!' I replied, 'monsieur, to seek my fortune as a soldier. I hear there are some of the Regiment of Berri here. And the arrière-ban is out, the summons made.' 'And so it is,' replied the seigneur, 'only the Regiment of Berri is complete, has all its complement. Now, here is the colonel of the mousquetaires; if he would take you, why, your fortune's made. Ask him, Boussac. Ask him.' So, monsieur, I asked him, telling him I could ride any horse; would do so if he brought one; knew the escrime—ma foi! many a time had I fenced in the old castle with those of the regiment; was strong and healthy, and, voilà! it was done. Even the Mousquetaires – the king's own guard, the men of the Maison du Roi were recruiting – it needed only that one should be of gentle blood, as the Boussacs are. So, monsieur, I am mousquetaire; have fought when they fight; we, of Ours, were at Mulhausen, Turckheim, and Salzbach – "

      "Did you see Turenne killed?" asked St. Georges, turning on his horse to look at his comrade.

      "Nay, not killed, but just before the battle. Ah! he was a soldier!" Then he went on with his recollections, finishing up by saying: "But, alas! since then the peace has come, and we have naught to do but to dance about the galleries of Versailles and be in attendance on the king and his court. That," he said, patting his horse's coal-black neck, "is no work for a soldier."

      "It will change ere long," said St. Georges, "if all accounts be true. Louis is threatened from all sides by the Dutchman, William, above all. It will come."

      "Let us hope so, monsieur. Peace is no good to us."

      "No! peace is no good to us. My only hope is, England may not be drawn into the game."

      "And wherefore, monsieur?"

      "I am half English – my mother was of that country. To draw a sword against the land that gave her birth would be no pleasure to me."

      "Yet, on the other – and the greater – side, monsieur is French. How should you decide, therefore, if war comes?"

      St. Georges rode on silently for a little while ere he answered this question, and the mousquetaire could see that he was pondering deeply. Then he seemed to shake himself clear of his doubts, and said:

      "My allegiance is to France. I have sworn fidelity to the king. To him consequently I belong. If, therefore," he continued, "my fidelity to him brings no harm to one whom I love best of all in the world" – and Boussac saw his arm enfold more closely the little child he carried – "I draw my sword for him."

      "Can your fidelity do that – bring harm to her?" he asked.

      "It might," replied the other, "it might. In serving Louis, in serving France, it may be that I put her in deadly peril. But as yet, Boussac, I can tell you no more."

      That Boussac was bewildered by this enigmatical remark he could plainly see. The soldier had wrinkled his brow and stared at him as he made

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"Les mousquetaires tiraient leur noms de la couleur de leur chevaux." —St. Simon.