ion reaching you, sire,' my patron continued, 'his enemies have
practised on your Majesty's well-known sense of justice.'

'Oh, but stay, stay!' the king cried, hitching forward the scanty cloak
he wore, which barely came down to his waist. 'The man has killed a
priest! He has killed a priest, man!'

He repeated with confidence, as if he had now got hold of the right
argument.

That is not so, sire, craving your Majesty's pardon, M. de Rambouillet;
replied with the utmost coolness.

'Tut! Tut! The evidence is clear,' the king said peevishly.

'As to that, sire,' my companion rejoined, 'if it is of the murder of
Father Antoine he is accused, I say boldly that there is none.'

'Then there you are mistaken!' the king answered. 'I heard it with my
own ears this morning.'

'Will you deign, sire, to tell me its nature?' M. de Rambouillet
persisted.

But on that Marshal Retz thought it necessary to intervene. 'Need we
turn his Majesty's chamber into a court of justice?' he said smoothly.
Hitherto he had not spoken; trusting, perhaps, to the impression he had
already made upon the king.

M. de Rambouillet took no notice of him.

'But Bruhl,' said the king, 'you see, Bruhl says--'

'Bruhl!' my companion replied, with so much contempt that Henry started.
'Surely your Majesty has not taken his word against this gentleman, of
all people?'

Thus reminded, a second time, of the interests entrusted to me, and
of the advantage which Bruhl would gain by my disappearance, the king
looked first confused, and then angry. He vented his passion in one or
two profane oaths, with the childish addition that we were all a set of
traitors, and that he had no one whom he could trust. But my companion
had touched the right chord at last; for when the king grew more
composed, he waved aside Marshal Retz's protestations, and sullenly bade
Rambouillet say what he had to say.

'The monk was killed, sire, about sunset,' he answered. 'Now my nephew,
M. d'Agen, is without, and will tell your Majesty that he was with this
gentleman at his lodgings from about an hour before sunset last evening
until a full hour after. Consequently, M. de Marsac can hardly be the
assassin, and M. le Marechal must look elsewhere if he wants vengeance.'

'Justice, sir, not vengeance.' Marshal Retz said with a dark glance. His
keen Italian face hid his trouble well, but a little pulse of passion
beating in his olive cheek betrayed the secret to those who knew h