“Hear the Man in Scarlet!”
The tallest of the horsemen, a devil-may-care appearing young man whose finely-chiseled features and delicate raiment proclaimed him of noble blood, now stepped to the side of the coach and unlocked the door and opened it.
A surpassingly beautiful woman of perhaps twenty-two years, sat within. She had the totally unexpected air of pretty surprise. As she descended, accepting with dainty grace the proffer of the gallant’s arm, her wide-set blue eyes were dazzled by the brilliance of the midday light.
“Thank you, Comte de Mousqueton,” she murmured.
With his charge, the Comte then approached the headsman, who stood with arms akimbo, his sharp eyes on the newcomers.
“M. Capeluche,” said the Comte, graciously. “The Royal Master sends this day the body of Mlle. Bonacieux. These papers, sir, are your warrant. Please to scan them at once.”
“The portent! The portent!” cried a voice from the crowd of rustics.
“Who shouts?” demanded Capeluche, looking about him fiercely, while a silence fell.
With a nod that gave scant heed to the etiquette of the occasion, the headsman accepted the beribboned parchment and ripped open the cover. The writ was of interminable length and inscribed in Latin. A glance, however, at the familiar “Now, therefore,” clause at the end quickly apprised Capeluche of his commission, and without a word he turned to enter his house.
“One moment,” said the Comte.