d, supported by two black wolves, rampant, the coronet
and motto "Praeclare factum."

"Aye," he mused half coherently, "the wolf; 'tis the crest of the
d'Artins, quartered with those of many of the most ancient houses of
France. So do those arms appear to men. But see."

He took the locket quickly from me and with a swift forceful movement
turned the plate in its place, exposing the reverse side.

"What is this? Look!"

I glanced at it and started, looking inquiringly into my old friend's
face. He avoided my eye.

I saw now upon the plate the same arms, the same quarterings, but over
all there ran diagonally across the scutcheon a flaming bar of red
which blazed evilly upon the silver ground. I understood.

"What is it?" he demanded impatiently. I still could find no word to
answer.

"Speak out boy, what is it?"

"The same, but here, overall, is the bendlet sinister." I scarcely
dared to look up into his face.

"Aye," he replied, his countenance livid with shame. "It is the bar
sinister, the badge of dishonor. So do those proud arms appear in the
sight of God, and so shall they be seen of men. And for generations
each Lord of Cartillon has added to that crimson stripe the indelible
stain of cowardice."

The master, his features working convulsively with humbled pride, his
eyes never leaving the floor, continued resolutely.

"The story is short. Over a hundred years ago the Count d'Artin was
murdered in his castle by the son of a peasant woman, his half brother,
who assumed the title and seized the estates. This was easy in those
times, for the murdered man was a Huguenot, his slayer a Catholic in
the service of Guise, and it was the day after St. Bartholomew's. The
count had sent his infant son for safety to an old friend, the abbott
of a neighboring monastery. This child was brought up in the Catholic
faith, and in him and his descendants resided the true right of the
Counts d'Artin. Of this they have always been ignorant. The usurper
on his death bed repented, and calling his own son to him, told him the
whole story, exacting a solemn oath that he would find the disinherited
one and restore to him his own. This oath was kept in part. His son,
Raoul d'Ortez, found the child, then an officer in the army, but lacked
the courage to declare his own shame, and relinquish the price of his
father's crime. By that Raoul d'Ortez this locket was made, and the
same vow and the same tradition were