"Quick--within!" said a voice. It was that of the Duke's porter, Frange
Pergot. Without hesitation or a word, Detricand did as he was bid, and
the door clanged to behind him.

"Fouche's men are coming down the street; spies have betrayed you,"
whispered Pergot. "Follow me. I will hide you till night, and then you
must away."

Pergot had spoken the truth. But Detricand was safely hidden, and
Fouche's men came too late to capture the Vendean chief or to forbid
those formal acts which made Philip d'Avranche a prince.

Once again at Saumur, a week later, Detricand wrote a long letter to
Carterette Mattingley, in Jersey, in which he set forth these strange
events at Bercy, and asked certain questions concerning Guida.




CHAPTER XXIV

Since the day of his secret marriage with Guida, Philip had been carried
along in the gale of naval preparation and incidents of war as a leaf is
borne onward by a storm--no looking back, to-morrow always the goal. But
as a wounded traveller nursing carefully his hurt seeks shelter from the
scorching sun and the dank air, and travels by little stages lest he
never come at all to friendly hostel, so Guida made her way slowly
through the months of winter and of spring.

In the past, it had been February to Guida because the yellow Lenten