e,
almost like the fluttering of a bird, then came to rest upon the
bunched folds of the napkin.

"The Dauphin is a child," he said, his fingers closing upon the
looseness of the linen as he spoke. "A weakling--girl! And so,
girl-like, he loves to play at make-believe. You know their games?
There is the shell of a ruined house beyond the walls and he holds it
against all-comers with a sword of lath, or carries it by assault at
the head of his army of two stable-boys. Then he cries, 'I am
Charlemagne! I am Roland! I am the Cid! I am----'--anything but the
Dauphin of France!"

"But, sire," ventured La Mothe, as the King paused, "that is natural in
a child."

"I played no such games at twelve years old," answered Louis bitterly.
"At twelve I learned king's-craft and foresaw realities; at twelve I
struggled to be a man in thought, never was I a girl-child in
make-believe, but Charles--Charles sucks sugar and hugs his toys. But
being a child we must treat him as a child, yes, yes, and so--and
so----" The voice trailed into silence and the hand upon the linen
shook as with a palsy. "You see," the King went on hoarsely, "what it
is to be a father. The child is a child and must be treated as a
child, and yet not encouraged in childish plays by the father, not
outwardly--not outwardly. Else Commines, Beaujeu, and these others
would say I fostered with my hand what I condemned with my head. No,
the father's hand must be hidden out of sight, and that will be your
part."

With a quick jerk he flung the linen napkin on the floor, and, dropping
the hand which had shaded his face, turned to La Mothe with what seemed
a challenge in his eyes, almost a defiance: it was as if he said, Scoff
if you dare! And yet in the little heap of interwoven, fine steel
rings there was nothing to move either laughter or contempt, and if the
quaint velvet mask which lay beside the coat of mail was effeminate in
the tinsel of its gold embroidery, it was at least no child's toy to
raise a sneer or gibe a moral.

Laughter? There was no thought of laughter. The warm heart of young
blood is emotional once its crust of unthinking carelessness is
pierced, and La Mothe was never nearer tears. More than that, the
pathetic humanness of it all, the bitter cynical censure of the King,
overborne and cast out by the abiding tenderness of the father, crushed
by no logic of kingcraft, was that touch of nature which made him kin
even to this ster