"And his name—his name, my friend. It must be St. Georges. Come from England, you say, with the English fleet. It is St. Georges!"
"Nay, his name he will not tell. But this I know: he was once of the Chevaux-Légers of Nivernois."
"My God! it is he!" and overcome with excitement Boussac sank back into his seat again.
Rapidly De Mortemart told the rest—the coxswain's evidence; the certain doom that must be St. Georges's must be pronounced by now, since, outside, the clatter of the Mousquetaires could be heard, proclaiming already clearly enough that the court was up, the sentence awarded.
"I must know all!" Boussac cried, and followed by the other he rushed out. And then he learned the galérien's doom—wheel on the third morning from now.
No wonder the pale-faced girl thought he looked sad as he stood in the gateway bidding De Mortemart a hasty farewell.
"If I can," he said, "I must save him; must if necessary see the king. I am mousquetaire—I have the right of audience."
"Nothing can save him," the other replied. "He has served Louis, and he has fought against him—on the conquering side. That is enough!"
"Yet," said Boussac, "I will try. I can tell Louis something of his history that may—though the chance is poor, God knows!—induce him to hold his hand. Or, at least, to let the doom be something less awful than the wheel."
So they parted, the one to take his men back to Rambouillet, the other to try and save St. Georges, vain as he feared the attempt would be.