"Sometimes, sire," stammered La Mothe, very ill at ease, and flushing
as youth will in the shame of its pride. It was almost as
disconcerting as being found out in a lie.

"Margaret of Scotland kissed Alain Chartier who made verses, and
Amboise is dull. Queen or waiting-maid, women are all of one flesh
under the skin, and to fool her should be easy. Remember," added Louis
hastily, "I do not bid you do this or that: I only suggest, nothing
more, nothing more. Monsieur de Commines--your uncle--will give you
your orders, and when--when"--he paused, catching at the throat of his
robe as if it choked the breath a little, swallowed with a gasp, then
went on harshly--"when the end has come say nothing, but take horse and
ride here for your life. Find me--me, without an instant's delay and
keep silence till you have found. Here is a ring that day or night
will open every door in Valmy."

"What end, sire?"

"What end? What end? Ask Commines, serve him, serve France; that end,
boy, that end, and in the name of Almighty God, ride fast." The dull
eyes took fire, and this time there was no need for the lying glow of
the scarlet robe to make pretence of health; so fierce a passion waked
the blood even in the deathly cheeks. But it also had the defect of
its quality, and Louis sank back breathless in exhaustion. "No, no!"
he whispered, the words whistling in his throat as he motioned
imperiously to La Mothe to keep his seat. "Call no one, it will
pass--it is nothing, nothing at all--and I have one thing more to say."

Fumbling amongst the cushions he drew out a little silver figure,
whether of man or woman La Mothe was uncertain, so fully the tense
fingers clenched it. This he held up, palsied, before his face, bowed
to it thrice, his lips moving soundlessly, then the hand slipped weakly
to his knees, the grasp relaxed, and the image clattered on the floor.
It had served its purpose, out of the curious act of faith a renewal of
strength was born and Louis was again King. But even then the words
faltered.

Shading his face with one hand he reached forward to the low bench. It
was littered with the contents natural to such a surrounding in such a
presence, papers, parchments, an ink-horn or two, a stand of goose
quills, a tray of blotting-sand, with, nearer to the King's hand, a
lumped-up linen cloth with the four corners folded and twisted inwards.
Amongst these the nervous hand shifted uncertainly here and ther