He was stooping in the act, when a quick step rang behind him on the threshold, an angry voice harsh and metallic pronounced his name: "Rebecque!" The sword clattered from Rabecque's hand suddenly gone nerveless--nerveless with sheer joy, all else forgotten in the perception that there, safe and sound, stood his beloved master.
"Monsieur!" he cried, and the tears welled up to the rough servant's eyes.

"Monsieur!" he cried again, and then with the tears streaming down his cheeks, sallow and wrinkled as parchment, "Oh, thank God!" he blubbered.

"Thank God!" "For what ?" asked Garnache, coming forward, a scowl like a thunder-cloud upon his brow.

"Where is the coach, where the troopers?
Where is mademoiselle?
Answer me!" He caught Rabecque's wrist in a grip that threatened to snap it.

His face was livid, his eyes aflame.
"They--they--" stammered Rabecque.