an iniquity he dare not commit
himself. And I am the arm of the King in Amboise? Never! God helping
me. I am to obey you, Monsieur de Commines; these were the King's
orders; but not in this, never in this, never, so help me God!"

"Listen, Stephen." Commines had fuller command of himself now and
spoke more quickly, but also with more assumption of authority. "Put
yourself in the King's place and consider the truth dispassionately."

"Consider dispassionately how a father can best kill his own son; yes,
Uncle?"

But Commines took no umbrage at the crude sarcasm, a sarcasm aimed at
himself and the King alike. He understood it as a sign that La Mothe's
mind was recovering from the shock which had swung its balance awry.
Five minutes earlier he would have declared that murder could never be
dispassionate. That he would listen at all was something gained.

"The King is both more and less than father," Commines went on: "that
is to say, his responsibilities are greater than those of a simple
citizen, and his private rights in his son are less. He and the
Dauphin do not belong to themselves. France comes first. Do you admit
that France comes first?"

"God knows!" replied La Mothe moodily. The dying out of his first hot
passionate protest had left him fretful and desperate. He remembered,
too, something the King had said about France being the mother of them
all, and at the time he had agreed; nor could he quite see where
Commines' argument might lead. "There was a time when I thought right
was eternally right, but now it seems a father may wipe out his
fatherhood in blood and be justified."

"France comes first," went on Commines, emphasizing the point which he
saw had weight. "The millions of lives in France come first. Could a
son who plots against his father's life reign in France?"

"He is a child."

"In a year he will be old enough to reign: answer me, could such a son
reign?"

"Are there not prisons?"

"You do not answer my question. I ask again, could such a son reign?"

"I am answering it in my own way, and, I repeat, there are prisons."

"And would there not be conspiracies? Would France not be torn asunder
in civil war? Would the blood of France not flow like water? Be
sensible, Stephen: am I not right?"

"I will never be the King's arm in Amboise, never, never. I would
sooner ride back to Valmy and face the justice of the King. The
justice of the King!" scoffed La Mothe, to ease