ir in and out like a blacksmith's
boy." He said it so drolly, though he was deadly ill, that I laughed for
half an hour at the stretch, wiping away my tears as I did it; for his
pale gray face looked so sorry, with its quaint smile and that odd, dry
voice of his.

As I sat there in my dungeon, with Gabord cocking his head and his eyes
rolling, that scene flashed on me, and I laughed freely--so much so
that Gabord sulkily puffed out his lips, and flamed like bunting on
a coast-guard's hut. The more he scowled and spluttered, the more I
laughed, till my wounded side hurt me and my arm had twinges. But my
mood changed suddenly, and I politely begged his pardon, telling him
frankly then and there what had made me laugh, and how I had come to
think of it. The flame passed out of his cheeks, the revolving fire of
his eyes dimmed, his lips broke into a soundless laugh, and then, in his
big voice, he said:

"You've got your knees to pray on yet, and crack my bones, but you'll
have need to con your penitentials if tattle in the town be true."

"Before you tell of that," said I, "how is young Monsieur Duvarney?
Is--is he alive?" I added, as I saw his face look lower.

"The Beast was at door again last night, wild to be off, and foot of
young Seigneur was in the stirrup, when along comes sister with drug got
from an Indian squaw who nursed her when a child. She gives it him, and
he drinks; they carry him back, sleeping, and Beast must stand there
tugging at the leathers yet."

"His sister--it was his sister," said I, "that brought him back to
life?"

"Like that--aho! They said she must not come, but she will have her way.
Straight she goes to the palace at night, no one knowing but--guess who?
You can't--but no!"

A light broke in on me. "With the Scarlet Woman--with Mathilde," I said,
hoping in my heart that it was so, for somehow I felt even then that
she, poor vagrant, would play a part in the history of Alixe's life and
mine.

"At the first shot," he said. "'Twas the crimson one, as quiet as a baby
chick, not hanging to ma'm'selle's skirts, but watching and whispering a
little now and then--and she there in Bigot's palace, and he not knowing
it! And maids do not tell him, for they knew the poor wench in better
days--aho!"

I got up with effort and pain, and made to grasp his hand in gratitude,
but he drew back, putting his arms behind him.

"No, no," said he, "I am your jailer. They've put you here to break your