rther, and leaning forward repeated the scrutiny; then he
beckoned very gently and lay back upon the pillows. He was a judge of
men, a crafty reader of the dumb truths told by eyes and mouth, or the
faint, uncontrollable shifts of expression, and so far he was
satisfied. Commines might be right or wrong, but at least this La
Mothe was no assassin. Nevertheless the door upon the right opened
quietly so soon as La Mothe had passed beyond eyesight of it, opened
wide enough for a cross-bow to cover him from the darkness of the
passage without. Louis was not a man to run a needless risk, and the
bolt which brought home the King's justice to the nettle-gatherer would
not miss Stephen La Mothe at thirty feet.

"Nearer," said a soft voice as La Mothe paused, uncertain how far that
beckoning hand had called him, "nearer yet; there! that will do for the
present. You are Stephen La Mothe, the friend of my dear and trusted
friend, therefore my friend also, and the King has need of friends.
No, no, say nothing, Philip said I could trust you as himself. That is
a great deal for one man to say of another."

"Prove me, sire." La Mothe spoke with an effort. The weary, caressing
voice with its subtle note of pathos, the affectionate, frank admission
of Commines' worth, the half-veiled appeal with its confession of a
personal need, had touched him deeply, stirring him as music has the
power to stir, so that to command words was difficult. "My uncle told
me----"

"Uncle?" Louis' suspicions sprang to life newborn. Goaded by their
sting he leaned forward, one arm thrust out, and for the first time La
Mothe saw the deathly pallor of his face. "Uncle, do you say?
Commines never called you nephew?"

"Not in blood, sire: in love--service--gratitude."

"Then it is better to have a nephew by name than a son by nature. Do
you hear? If you love your uncle pray with all your soul that he may
never have a son to grudge him his life." The thrust-out fingers,
little more than bleached skin drawn tight over fleshless bones, were
shaken in a convulsion of passion, from the sunken, dull eyes a sudden
fire glared, and the thin lips shrank upon the uneven teeth. But in an
instant the spasm passed and Louis sank back upon the pillows,
breathing heavily and plucking at the tags of gold cord fastening his
robe at the breast. "See what it is to have a son," he said, but in so
low a tone that La Mothe barely caught the words, nor were they s