"Because they have to do what they're told and go where they're led, and God made men for better things than that. This wounded sentry, I find, is a particular friend of mine. He doesn't know it, but he is. That's the way of the world; we seldom do know our best friends. I've never spoken to him nor he to me, but I always look out for him, because his coat fits so badly. He's a poor figure of a man, your Grace, and an ill-fitting coat suits him. I will go with you and see how he does."
"Better run away, Jean, before I have you whipped."
"Whipped? For what, Lord Duke?"
"Silence, fool!"
"It may be, Count, that clearer insight is given to those the world calls fools," whispered Father Bertrand.
"That's a poor excuse for treason," said the Count; and then, turning to the dwarf, he went on: "The Duke comes to Vayenne to-day, Jean. Have you not seen the soldiers in the streets ready to welcome him?"
"Ah! what a fool am I!" laughed the dwarf. "I thought they were there to keep out any one else who might fancy himself Duke. I'll go and await his coming. But first, I pray you, let me see my ill-made friend. Nature has made such a mess of him, I doubt whether even the spy can have made him much worse."
"The fellow is an amusing fool, father. I've heard wise men talk more folly. Come if you will, Jean."
The sentry was conscious, but for all the Count's questions there was little to be got from him. He was standing with his back toward the wall when something fell on him and crushed him. He had no breath to cry out, and remembered nothing after the first thrust of the steel.
"Poor soldier!" muttered Jean.