But a stranger who about nightfall rode down the
street towards the entrance, a single footman running at his stirrup,
only nodded a stern approval of the preparations. As he drew nearer he
cast an attentive eye this way and that; nor stayed until a hoarse
challenge brought him up when he had come within six horses' lengths of
the Arsenal gate. He reined up then, and raising his voice, asked in
clear tones for M. de Biron.
"Go," he continued boldly, "tell the Grand Master that one from the King
is here, and would speak with him."
"From the King of France?" the officer on the gate asked.
"Surely! Is there more than one king in France?"
A curse and a bitter cry of "King? King Herod!" were followed by a
muttered discussion that, in the ears of one of the two who waited in the
gloom below, boded little good. The two could descry figures moving to
and fro before the faint red light of the smouldering matches; and
presently a man on the gate kindled a torch, and held it so as to fling
its light downward. The stranger's attendant cowered behind the horse.
"Have a care, my lord!" he whispered. "They are aiming at us!"
If so the rider's bold front and unmoved demeanour gave them pause.
Presently, "I will send for the Grand Master" the man who had spoken
before announced.
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