depending upon
you. Thus, within your State you will have two great parties under arms,
neither of which can be called your own. Unless you stir yourself, and
quickly, unless you choose now between friends and foes, you will find
yourself alone, isolated, in grave peril, without authority or power."

He sank overwhelmed to a chair, and took his head in his hands,
cogitating. When next he looked at her there was positive fear in his
great eyes, a fear evoked by contemplation of the picture which her
words had painted for him.

He looked from her to Anjou.

"What then?" he asked. "What then? How is the danger to be averted?"

"By a simple stroke of the sword," she answered calmly. "Slice off at a
blow the head of this beast of rebellion, this hydra of heresy."

He huddled back, horror in his eyes. His hands slid slowly along the
carved arms of his chair, and clenched the ends so tightly that his
knuckles looked like knobs of marble.

"Kill the Admiral?" he said slowly.

"The Admiral and the chief Huguenot leaders," she said, much in the tone
she might have used, were it a matter of wringing the necks of a dozen
capons.

"Ah, ca! Par la Mort Dieu!" He heaved himself up, raging. "Thus would
your hatred of him be served. Thus would you--"

Coolly she sliced into his foaming speech.

"Not I--not I!" she said. "Do nothing upon my advice. Summon your
Council. Send for Tavannes, Biragues, Retz, and the others. Consult with
them. They are your friends; you trust and believe in them. When they
know the facts, see if their counsel will differ from your mother's.
Send for them; they are in the Louvre now."

He looked at her a moment.

"Very well," he said; and reeled to the door, bawling hoarsely his
orders.

They came, one by one--the Marshal de Tavannes, the Duke of Retz, the
Duke of Nevers, the Chancellor de Biragues, and lastly the Duke of
Guise, upon whom the King scowled a jealous hatred that was now fully
alive.

The window, which overlooked the quay and the river, stood open to admit
what air might be stirring on that hot day of August.

Charles sat at his writing-table, sullen and moody, twining a string of
beads about his fingers. Catherine occupied the chair over beyond the
table, Anjou sitting near her on a stool. The others stood respectfully
awaiting that the King should make known his wishes. The shifty royal
glance swept over them from under lowering brows; then it rested almost
in challenge upon