tween the two. A strong wind came
rushing up the valley through the clear sunlight, the great trees
beneath the castle swayed, and the flapping of the tricolour could be
heard within. From the window-sill the dove, caught up on the wave of
wind, sailed away down the widening glade.

Philip's first motion was to stand up and say: "I dare not think your
Highness means in very truth to make me your kinsman in the succession."

"And why not, why not?" testily answered the Duke, who liked not to be
imperfectly apprehended. Then he added more kindly: "Why not--come, tell
me that, cousin? Is it then distasteful?"

Philip's heart gave a leap and his face flushed. "I have no other
kinsman," he answered in a low tone of feeling. "I knew I had your
august friendship--else all the tokens of your goodness to me were
mockery; but I had scarce let myself count on the higher, more intimate
honour--I, a poor captain in the English navy."

He said the last words slowly, for, whatever else he was, he was a loyal
English sailor, and he wished the Duc de Bercy to know it, the more
convincingly the better for the part he was going to play in this duchy,
if all things favoured.

"Tut, tut, what has that to do with it?" answered the Duke. "What has
poverty to do with blood? Younger sons are always poor, younger cousins
poorer. As for the captaincy of an English warship, that's of no
consequence where greater games are playing--eh?"

He eyed Philip keenly, yet too there was an unasked question in his
look. He was a critic of human nature, he understood the code of honour,
none better; his was a mind that might be wilfully but never crassly
blind. He was selfish where this young gentleman was concerned, yet he
knew well how the same gentleman ought to think, speak, and act.

The moment of the great test was come.

Philip could not read behind the strange, shrivelled face. Instinct
could help him much, but it could not interpret that parchment. He did
not know whether his intended reply would alienate the Duke or not, but
if it did, then he must bear it. He had come, as he thought, to the crux
of this adventure. All in a moment he was recalled again to his real
position. The practical facts of his life possessed him. He was standing
between a garish dream and commonplace realities. Old feelings came
back--the old life. The ingrain loyalty of all his years was his again.
Whatever he might be, he was still an English officer, and he was not