f three sides; all similarly curtained with
tapestry. The fourth side was occupied by two large windows and a great
stone chimney-piece, carved with the arms of the Maletroits. Denis
recognised the bearings, and was gratified to find himself in such good
hands. The room was strongly illuminated; but it contained little
furniture except a heavy table and a chair or two, the hearth was
innocent of fire, and the pavement was but sparsely strewn with rushes
clearly many days old.

On a high chair beside the chimney, and directly facing Denis as he
entered, sat a little old gentleman in a fur tippet. He sat with his
legs crossed and his hands folded, and a cup of spiced wine stood by his
elbow on a bracket on the wall. His countenance had a strongly masculine
cast; not properly human, but such as we see in the bull, the goat, or
the domestic boar; something equivocal and wheedling, something greedy,
brutal, and dangerous. The upper lip was inordinately full, as though
swollen by a blow or a toothache; and the smile, the peaked eyebrows,
and the small, strong eyes were quaintly and almost comically evil in
expression. Beautiful white hair hung straight all round his head, like
a saint's, and fell in a single curl upon the tippet. His beard and
moustache were the pink of venerable sweetness. Age, probably in
consequence of inordinate precautions, had left no mark upon his hands;
and the Maletroit hand was famous. It would be difficult to imagine
anything at once so fleshy and so delicate in design; the taper, sensual
fingers were like those of one of Leonardo's women; the fork of the
thumb made a dimple protuberance when closed; the nails were perfectly
shaped, and of a dead, surprising whiteness. It rendered his aspect
tenfold more redoubtable, that a man with hands like these should keep
them devoutly folded in his lap like a virgin martyr--that a man with so
intense and startling an expression of face should sit patiently on his
seat and contemplate people with an unwinking stare, like a god, or a
god's statue. His quiescence seemed ironical and treacherous, it fitted
so poorly with his looks.

Such was Alain, Sire de Maletroit.

Denis and he looked silently at each other for a second or two.

"Pray step in," said the Sire de Maletroit. "I have been expecting you
all the evening."

He had not risen, but he accompanied his words with a smile and a slight
but courteous inclination of the head. Partly from the smile, part