ess formal, less difficult.
"Treason is treason wherever found. You know its punishment, but the
days of Brutus are gone. The justice of the King, the justice of the
father, can no longer--no longer----" But even his restless pacing
could not give him power to clothe the grim thought in blunt words, and
Commines was silent.

La Mothe's scornful indignation had no such reticence, nor had he yet
learned how to cloak the ugliness of a naked truth in the pleasant
euphemisms of diplomacy. With frank brutality he completed Commines'
broken sentence.

"The father can no longer murder the son and call it justice. But,
monsieur," and it was significant that the adoptive relationship was
unceremoniously swept aside, "what has the father's murder of the son
to do with me?"

"Treason is treason," repeated Commines, finding some comfort and
strength in the bald platitude: it was incontrovertible and at least
gave him firm ground under his feet. "Nor can treason go unpunished,
or how would the throne be safe for a day? But what the father cannot
do, though a king, another can and must; and must," he reiterated,
steeling himself with a rising emphasis for what was to follow. "And
you have been chosen as the King's arm in Amboise."

This time there was no outburst of scorn or indignation. It was not
that the crisis was too deep for noisy declamation, though human nature
differs from organic in that it commonly meets its most grave crises in
quietness. The truth was, simply, that La Mothe did not grasp the full
meaning of the words.

"The King's arm in Amboise?" he said uncomprehendingly. "The King's
arm? What does that mean?" Then, by the very repetition of the
phrase, enlightenment dawned in part and he shrank back, his fingers
closing in upon his palms. "Not that! For God's sake, Monsieur de
Commines, say it is not that! Not that the father---- Oh! it cannot
be, it cannot. Is it--is it murder?"

"Justice," replied Commines doggedly through his shut teeth. "Let us
call things by their proper names. I say justice, justice of----"

"Hell!" broke in La Mothe fiercely. "Justice is sacred, to God
Almighty, and this--this---- Where is God's hand? Where is--? Oh,
no, no, it is damnable, damnable!"

"Justice," repeated Commines, quoting Louis. "Not even the son of a
king is above or beyond justice."

"Vicarious murder!" retorted La Mothe. "No smooth sophism can make it
less. He would have another commit