his mother. His own chateau of Bezers lay far away in Franche
Comte, but of late he had shown a preference--Catherine could
best account for it, perhaps--for this mean house in Caylus. It
was the only house in the town which did not belong to us. It
was known as the House of the Wolf, and was a grim stone building
surrounding a courtyard. Rows of wolves' heads carved in stone
flanked the windows, whence their bare fangs grinned day and
night at the church porch opposite.

The noise drew our eyes in this direction; and there lolling in a
window over the door, looking out on the street with a laughing
eye, was Bezers himself. The cause of his merriment--we had not
far to look for it--was a horseman who was riding up the street
under difficulties. He was reining in his steed--no easy task on
that steep greasy pavement--so as to present some front to a
score or so of ragged knaves who were following close at his
heels, hooting and throwing mud and pebbles at him. The man had
drawn his sword, and his oaths came up to us, mingled with shrill
cries of "VIVE LA MESSE!" and half drowned by the clattering of
the horse's hoofs. We saw a stone strike him in the face, and
draw blood, and heard him swear louder than before.

"Oh!" cried Catherine, clasping her hands with a sudden shriek
of indignation, "my letter! They will get my letter!"

"Death!" exclaimed Croisette, "She is right! It is M. de
Pavannes' courier! This must be stopped! We cannot stand this,
Anne!"

"They shall pay dearly for it, by our Lady!" I cried swearing