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.
"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.
The headsman paused, scowling.
"Where, M. Capeluche, are we to lodge the prisoner in the interim?"
A sardonic smile suddenly played on the features of Capeluche.
"In Peptonneau, Comte de Mousquoten," he said, "you will please to understand that since the days of the plague there has been no inn."
The glance of the Man in Scarlet now shifted to the dilapidated, unoccupied structures on either side of his own dwelling.
"These are the only vacant houses in Peptonneau, their emptiness, of a truth, due to the fact that they stand next the dwelling of red. Of these two you may choose freely, sir."
The crowd dispersed.
