"My name is Edward Langdale," replied the young Englishman,—"a poor follower of my Lord Montagu, who once bore letters from his Grace of Buckingham to the city of Rochelle."
"Ay, I remember," said the mayor, thoughtfully: "you were roughly used, if I remember right. But now, sir, to your business."
"It is in a great degree personal," replied Edward; "but, as it is private, I would rather speak to you alone."
"Leave us," said the mayor, addressing the young officer, who at once quitted the room and closed the door. "Now, sir," continued Guiton, "I am ready to hear. But be brief, I pray you. Occupation here is more plenty than time, and time more plenty than provisions. Therefore I cannot offer you refreshment nor show you much courtesy."
"I require neither, sir," answered Edward. "My business refers to Monsieur Clement Tournon. He is aged,—infirm; and I have with some difficulty obtained from the Cardinal de Richelieu permission and a pass for him to quit Rochelle."
"Ha!" said the mayor. "Ha! This is strange, young gentleman! You must be in mighty favor! Why, sir, he has driven back women and children and old men—all starving—from the French lines into this city of famine! You, an Englishman, an enemy,—he show such favor to you! Pah! There must be something under this. Have you no message for me?"
"No distinct message, sir," replied Edward: "the cardinal indeed said, in terms so vague that I cannot and will not counsel any reliance upon them, that if Rochelle would submit she should have favorable terms,—as favorable as even I could expect. But I am not his messenger, sir. Neither is there any thing that I know under the plain fact which I have stated."
"Let me see your pass," said Guiton, abruptly. Edward handed it to him, and he examined it minutely. "'Edward Langdale and one companion,—to wit, the syndic Clement Tournon'!" he said. "Well, this is marvellous strange! I cannot let this pass without some further knowledge of so unaccountable a matter."
"Well, Monsieur Guiton," answered Edward, firmly, "pray remember that I, comparatively, a stranger to him, have perilled much to aid and rescue a man who once showed me kindness, nursed me like a father when I was sick, and trusted me as he would his son when I had recovered; and that it is you—his ancient friend, as I am told—who keep him here to die of famine or of sickness when he can be of no further service either with hand or head. I have done my duty. Probably you think you are doing yours."
The mayor waved his hand. "Not so many words," he said. "Can you give me any explanation of this strange matter?"