Old Jacques permitted himself a toothless grin. It was not often that a Peptonneau villager could stir the equanimity of the great one, whose prerogatives of office entitled him to tithes exacted from towns and monasteries as ruthlessly as those of prince or baron.
“The coach, Monsieur,” the loquacious Jacques continued with satisfaction, “is accompanied by three outriders; they are men of the Divine Philippe’s, Monsieur, recently returned from ‘The Foolish Wars’, and wearing on the shoulders of their tunics the sign of the cross, together with——”
“A falcon in full flight?” quickly broke in the headsman.
“Even so, M. Capeluche. A falcon in full— Now, regardez vous, the great man is himself in full flight!”
If the headsman had in truth rather precipitately taken himself into his dwelling, his absence was of short duration, for he returned in a moment, clad in a scarlet cloak that reached to his knees.
At the instant there sounded the call of a bugle, and into sight swung three horsemen, followed by the coach driven at breakneck speed.
M. Capeluche took a position midway of the road and presently caught the heads of the horses drawing the coach. His black eyes snapped fire as he noted the quivering flanks of the hard-driven animals.
“High honor you do me, M. le Headsman,” cried the driver, leaping to the ground and clapping the palms of his hands against his breeches to relieve them of perspiration.
“No honor to you, you puling son of an ass,” retorted Capeluche, crossly.