An officer with a bewildering series of silver arabesques on either sleeve guided a nervous horse through the throng of troopers, returned Jack's pleasant salute, reached out a gloved hand for his papers, and read them, sitting silently in his saddle. When he finished, he removed the cigarette from his lips, looked eagerly at Jack, and said:
"You are from Morteyn?"
"Yes."
"A guest?"
"The Vicomte de Morteyn is my uncle."
The officer burst into a boyish laugh.
"Jack Marche!"
"Eh!" cried Jack, startled.
Then he looked more closely at the young officer before him, who was laughing in his face.
"Well, upon my word! No—it can't be little Georges Carrière?"