We--though we were of the
old faith, and the other side--had heard much of him, and much
good. The Vicomte had spoken of him always as a great man, a man
mistaken, but brave, honest and capable in his error. Therefore
it was that when the landlord mentioned him, I forgot even my
hunger.
"He was shot, my lords, as he passed through the Rue des Fosses,
yesterday," the man declared with bated breath. "It is not known
whether he will live or die. Paris is in an uproar, and there
are some who fear the worst."
"But," I said doubtfully, "who has dared to do this? He had a
safe conduct from the king himself."
Our host did not answer; shrugging his shoulders instead, he
opened the door, and ushered us into the eating-room.
Some preparations for our meal had already been made at one end
of the long board. At the other was seated a man past middle
age; richly but simply dressed. His grey hair, cut short about a
massive head, and his grave, resolute face, square-jawed, and
deeply-lined, marked him as one to whom respect was due apart
from his clothes.
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