you please, captain," said one, saluting, "this is a Huguenot who
abused the royal guard."

"His petition had been rejected by the king, captain, and yet he refused
to go."

De Catinat was white with fury. "And so, when a French citizen has come
to have a word with the great master of his country, he must be harassed
by two Swiss dogs like you?" he cried. "By my faith, we shall soon see
about that!"

He drew a little silver whistle from his pocket, and at the shrill
summons an old sergeant and half a dozen soldiers came running from the
guard-room.

"Your names?" asked the captain sternly.

"Andre Meunier."

"And yours?"

"Nicholas Klopper."

"Sergeant, you will arrest these men, Meunier and Klopper."

"Certainly, captain," said the sergeant, a dark grizzled old soldier of
Conde and Turenne.

"See that they are tried to-day."

"And on what charge, captain?"

"For assaulting an aged and respected citizen who had come on business
to the king."

"He was a Huguenot on his own confession," cried the culprits together.

"Hum!" The sergeant pulled doubtfully at his long moustache. "Shall we
put the charge in that form, captain? Just as the captain pleases."
He gave a little shrug of his epauletted shoulders to signify his doubt
whether any good could arise from it.

"No," said De Catinat, with a sudden happy thought. "I charge them with
laying their halberds down while on duty, and with having their uniforms
dirty and disarranged."

"That is better," answered the sergeant, with the freedom of a
privileged veteran. "Thunder of God, but you have disgraced the guards!
An hour on the wooden horse with a musket at either foot may teach you
that halberds were made for a soldier's hand, and not for the king's
grass-plot. Seize them! Attention! Right half turn! March!"

And away went the little clump of guardsmen with the sergeant in the
rear.

The Huguenot had stood in the background, grave and composed, without
any sign of exultation, during this sudden reversal of fortune; but when
the soldiers were gone, he and the young officer turned warmly upon each
other.

"Amory, I had not hoped to see you!"

"Nor I you, uncle. What, in the name of wonder, brings you to
Versailles?"

"My wrongs, Amory. The hand of the wicked is heavy upon us, and whom
can we turn to save only the king?"

The young officer shook his head. "The king is at heart a good man,"
said he. "But he can only see the world