The poor wounded fellow had had strength enough to turn his horse into the wood and cling to his seat.

How long he had stayed thus, slowly bleeding to death, I could not say; but the diligence must have passed that way two hours ago, and he must have been well ahead of it when his journey was thus suddenly stopped.
Then I recalled his dying words, and after tethering the horse set myself to look for the papers he spoke of.

I found them at last--the passport in his breast pocket, whence he could easily produce it, the others in his belt.

The former described the bearer as John Cassidy, travelling from Paris to Dublin and back on urgent private business, duly signed and countersigned.

It gave a description of the bearer, even down to the clothes he wore: I supposed to enable any official who passed him from one point of his journey to another to identify him.
The letters were two in number, one addressed to Citoyen Duport, a Deputy of the National Convention, and marked with the greatest urgency.
The other--and this startled me the most--to one George Lestrange at Paris, with no other address.