intention of hanging me."

"My dear sir, I congratulate you!" exclaimed the nobleman
enthusiastically.

"Thanks!" Dryly.

"It is the test of gentility. They only hang or cut off the heads of
people of distinction nowadays."

"Gad! then I came near joining the ranks of the well-born angels. But
for an accident I should now be a cherub of quality."

"And how, Monsieur, did you escape such a felicitous fate?"

The land baron's face clouded. "Through a stranger--a Frenchman--a
silent, taciturn fellow--more or less an adventurer, I take it. He
called himself Saint-Prosper--"

"Saint-Prosper!"

The marquis gazed at Mauville with amazement and incredulity. He might
even have flushed or turned pale, but such a possible exhibition of
emotion was lost beneath an artificial bloom, painted by his valet.
His eyes, however, gleamed like candles in a death's head.

"This Saint-Prosper you met was a soldier?" he asked, and his voice
trembled. "Ernest Saint-Prosper?"

"Yes; he was a soldier; served in Africa, I believe. You knew him?"
Turning to the marquis in surprise.

"Knew him! He was my ward, the rascal!" cried the other violently. "He
was, but now--ingrate!--traitor!--better if he were dead!"

"You speak bitterly, Monsieur le Marquis?" said the patroon
curiously.

"Bitterly!--after his conduct!--he is no longer anything to me! He is
dead to me--dead!"

"How did he deviate from the line of duty?" asked Mauville, with
increasing interest, and an eagerness his light manner did not
disguise. "A sin of omission or commission?"

"Eh? What?" mumbled the old nobleman, staring at his questioner, and,
on a sudden, becoming taciturn. "A family affair!" he added finally,
with dignity. "Not worth repeating! But what was he doing there?"

"He had joined a strolling band of players," said the other,
concealing his disappointment as best he might at his companion's
evasive reply.

"A Saint-Prosper become an actor!" shouted the marquis, his anger
again breaking forth. "Has he not already dragged an honored name in
the dust? A stroller! A player!" The marquis fairly gasped at the
enormity of the offense; for a moment he was speechless, and then
asked feebly: "What caused him to take such a humiliating step?"

"He is playing the hero of a romance," said the land baron, moodily.
"I confess he has excellent taste, though! The figure of a Juno--eyes
like stars on an August night--features proud as Diana--the voice of a
siren--i