"This is the condemned man?" the horseman asked of the chief official; "the man who was sentenced at the cours criminel on Friday last to die this morning?"
"It is the man, Monsieur l'Hérault," the official replied, his questioner being none other than L'Hérault, the head of the police system.
"Remove his irons."
At this order the two jailers stepped forward, the one unlocking the fetters that bound St. Georges's hands, the other knocking away with the hammer the iron pegs that ran through the steel ring which held the chains round his ankles. And in less than three moments chains and fetters lay at his feet.
"Here is the warrant," L'Hérault said, handing it to the governor of the Hôtel de Ville—for such the principal official by his side was—"read it aloud to the prisoner," and it was read accordingly. It ran:
"To M. l'Hérault, superintendent of our police, and to the governor of our Hôtel de Ville at Paris:
"It is our royal will that the prisoner tried at our cours criminel by M. Barthe de la Rennie, one of our judges, and sentenced to die on the morning of Monday, the 26th June of this year 1692, be released and set free unconditionally. And may——"
"What!" exclaimed St. Georges, reeling backward, and speaking in a hoarse whisper—"what! what does this mean? Who has written that?"
"The king," L'Hérault answered. Then he said briefly, "You are free."
"Free! Not to go to—to that?" and he pointed below.