But my attention was
arrested the next moment by Croisette, who tapped my arm with his
riding whip. "Look!" he cried in some excitement, "is not that
he?"
I followed the direction of the lad's finger--as well as I could
for the plunging of my horse which Bure's had frightened--and
scrutinized the last pair of the troop. They were crossing the
street in which we stood, and I had only a side view of them; or
rather of the nearer rider. He was a singularly handsome man, in
age about twenty-two or twenty-three with long lovelocks falling
on his lace collar and cloak of orange silk. His face was sweet
and kindly and gracious to a marvel. But he was a stranger to
me.
"I could have sworn," exclaimed Croisette, "that that was Louis
himself--M. de Pavannes!"
"That?" I answered, as we began to move again, the crowd melting
before us. "Oh, dear, no!"
"No! no! The farther man!" he explained.
But I had not been able to get a good look at the farther of the
two. We turned in our saddles and peered after him.
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