n and pitiless despot in spite of the repulsion
wakened by the justice of the King. With these secret gifts of
fatherhood before him he saw Louis in a new light, and the loyalty
which had been a loyalty of cold duty took fire in that enthusiasm
which is the devotion of the heart and counts life itself no sacrifice.
Nor could he hide the new birth within him, and the dark lines of
challenge were smoothed from the King's face.

"A little slender coat such as the French Maid might have worn," he
said, lifting the woven links gently as if he loved them, and dropping
them again in a little heap that caught the light on every separate
ring and split it up into a hundred glittering points. "It may have a
message for him when he plays Roland or Charlemagne, and through it the
spirit of the child may grow."

"But surely all the world may know of such a gift as that? Sire, sire,
let me tell the whole truth; give me leave to say this is from the
father to the son, from the King who is to the King who shall be----"

"God's name, boy, who bade you fill thrones with your King
who shall be! Is this Commines' work? Does he think--does he
think--that--that--Christ give me breath!" And the hooked fingers
caught roughly, fiercely, at his robe, tearing it open so that the lean
neck with its tense sinewy cords was laid bare to the glare. "Quick,
quick, is it Commines--Commines--Commines?" he stammered, gasping. "I
took him from the gutter--from the very gutter; he was traitor to a
Charles to serve Louis, and now is he a traitor to Louis to serve a
Charles again?" Pushing himself up, half kneeling on the couch, half
leaning on the low bench, he stretched out a shaking, threatening hand
towards La Mothe. "Why don't you speak, boy, why don't you speak and
tell the truth, you dumb dog?"

But the passion was beyond his strength, his jaw dropped, he shivered
as if with cold, and fell back upon the cushions, one hand feebly
beckoning to La Mothe to come nearer.

"Whisper," he said, patting La Mothe's arm fawningly, a wry smile
twitching his lips, but leaving the watchful eyes cold. "We are alone,
we two. Who put that thought into your head? Eh? Come now? Come
now?"

"No one, sire, on my honour, no one."

"Honour? I know too much of the ways of men to trust men's honour.
Swear, boy," he burst out again, passionately roused. "Swear on this.
It is the Cross of Saint Lo, and remember, remember, whoso swears
falsely dies, dies