himmering white satin, one knee bent upon a chair, and
leaning with easy grace--dice-box in hand--across the small gilt-legged
table; beside him ex-Ambassador Chauvelin, standing with arms folded
behind his back, watching every movement of his brilliant adversary like
some dark-plumaged hawk hovering near a bird of paradise.

"Place first, Monsieur?" suggested Sir Percy.

"As you will, sir," assented Chauvelin.

He took up a dice-box which one of the gentlemen handed to him and the
two men threw.

"'Tis mine, Monsieur," said Blakeney carelessly, "mine to name the place
where shall occur this historic encounter, 'twixt the busiest man
in France and the most idle fop that e'er disgraced these three
kingdoms.... Just for the sake of argument, sir, what place would you
suggest?"

"Oh! the exact spot is immaterial, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelin coldly,
"the whole of France stands at your disposal."

"Aye! I thought as much, but could not be quite sure of such boundless
hospitality," retorted Blakeney imperturbably.

"Do you care for the woods around Paris, sir?"

"Too far from the coast, sir. I might be sea-sick crossing over the
Channel, and glad to get the business over as soon as possible.... No,
not Paris, sir--rather let us say Boulogne.... Pretty little place,
Boulogne... do you not think so...?"

"Undoubtedly, Sir Percy."

"Then Boulogne it is.. the ramparts, an you will, on the south side of
the town."

"As you please," rejoined Chauvelin drily. "Shall we throw again?"

A murmur of merriment had accompanied this brief colloquy between the
adversaries, and Blakeney's bland sallies were received with shouts of
laughter. Now the dice rattled again and once more the two men threw.

"'Tis yours this time, Monsieur Chauvelin," said Blakeney, after a rapid
glance at the dice. "See how evenly Chance favours us both. Mine, the
choice of place... admirably done you'll confess.... Now yours the
choice of time. I wait upon your pleasure, sir.... The southern ramparts
at Boulogne--when?"

"The fourth day from this, sir, at the hour when the Cathedral bell
chimes the evening Angelus," came Chauvelin's ready reply.

"Nay! but methought that your demmed government had abolished
Cathedrals, and bells and chimes.... The people of France have now to
go to hell their own way... for the way to heaven has been barred by
the National Convention.... Is that not so?... Methought the Angelus was
forbidden to be rung."

"N