th the greatest king in the
world.

"You'll ride to Monsieur's," he commanded me, when the captain answered:

"No; he goes with you, monsieur, if he's the boy Choux, Troux, whatever
it is."

"Broux--Felix Broux!" I cried, a-quiver.

"That's it. You go to the king, too. Another luck-child."

I thought so indeed. We followed the sentry through the town in a waking
dream, content to let him do with us as he would. He did the talking,
explained to the grandees in the king's hall our names and errand. One
of them led us up the stairs and knocked at a closed door.

"Enter!"

It was Henry's own voice. I pinched monsieur's hand to tell him. Our
guide opened the door a crack.

"M. de Mar, Sire, and his servant."

"Good, La Force. Let them enter."

M. La Force fairly pushed us over the sill, so abashed were we, and shut
the door upon us.

The king was alone. But before this simple gentleman in the rusty black,
M. Etienne caught his breath as he had not done before a court in full
pomp. He had seen courts, but he had never seen the first soldier of
Europe. He advanced three steps into the room, and forgot to kneel,
forgot to lower his gaze in the presence, but merely stared wide-eyed at
majesty, as majesty stared at him. Thus they stood surveying each other
from top to toe in the frankest curiosity, till at length the king
spoke:

"M. de Mar, you look less like a carpet-knight than I expected."

M. Etienne came to himself, to kneel at once.

"Sire, I blush for my looks. But your zealous soldiers would not let me
from their clutches. I am just come from killing Paul de Lorraine."

"What! the spy Lucas?"

"Himself. And when I left the spot by way of the window in some haste, I
was not expecting this honour, Sire."

"Nor do I think you deserve it, ventre-saint-gris!" the king cried.
"Though you come hatless and coat-less to-day, you have been a long time
on the road, M. de Mar."

"Aye, Sire."

"You might as well have stayed away as come at this hour. Marry, all's
over! Go hang yourself, my breathless follower! We have fought all our
great battles, and you were not there!"

Scarlet under the lash, M. Etienne, kneeling, bent his eyes on the
ground. He was silent, but as the king spoke not, he felt it incumbent
to stammer something:

"That is my life's misfortune, Sire."

"Misfortune, sirrah? Misfortune you call it? Let me hear you say fault."

"I dare not, Sire," M. Etienne murmured. "It was of course you