The Jew's lean nag did little more than walk. She was going
along at a slow jog trot, and her driver had to give her long and
frequent halts.
"Are we a long way yet from Miquelon?" asked Chauvelin from
time to time.
"Not very far, your Honour," was the uniform placid reply.
"We have not yet come across your friend and mine, lying in a
heap in the roadway," was Chauvelin's sarcastic comment.
"Patience, noble Excellency," rejoined the son of Moses, "they
are ahead of us. I can see the imprint of the cart wheels, driven by
that traitor, that son of the Amalekite."
"You are sure of the road?"
"As sure as I am of the presence of those ten gold pieces in
the noble Excellency's pockets, which I trust will presently be mine."
"As soon as I have shaken hands with my friend the tall
stranger, they will certainly be yours."
"Hark, what was that?" said the Jew suddenly.
Through the stillness, which had been absolute, there could
now be heard distinctly the sound of horses' hoofs on the muddy road.
"They are soldiers," he added in an awed whisper.
"Stop a moment, I want to hear," said Chauvelin.
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