d Commines, his arm still round La Mothe's
shoulders, turned upon Villon in a swift access of passion. "How is it
you are blind, you who are hand and glove with Jean Saxe? Be sure the
King shall hear the truth."

But Villon was unabashed. "What is the truth, Monsieur d'Argenton?
Even your friend Tristan would not hang a man without first telling him
what for. What is this truth of yours?"

"There is a plot against the King's life."

"In Amboise?"

"In Amboise. The Dauphin, that woman Ursula de Vesc, Hugues----"

"It's a lie," cried La Mothe, shaking himself free from Commines' arm.
"A lie, a lie. I have Mademoiselle de Vesc's own word for it that it
is a lie."

"And I have proof that it is true."

"Proof? Whose proof?"

Commines hesitated to reply. Already he had overstepped his purpose.
Before making his disclosure to La Mothe he had searched for Villon in
the hope of drawing some confirmation from him, or what, to a mind
willing to be convinced, might pass for confirmation; but in his vexed
anger he had spoken prematurely. Weakly he tried to cover his error,
first by an appeal, then by domineering. But the lover in Stephen La
Mothe was neither to be cajoled nor threatened.

"Stephen, cannot you trust me after all these years? What interest
have I but the King's service?"

"Uncle, you said proofs--whose proofs?"

"What is that to you? Do you forget that you are to obey my orders?"

"Proofs, Monsieur d'Argenton, whose proofs?"

"All do not blind themselves as you do." Round he swung upon Villon,
shaking a stretched-out finger at him viciously. "Drinking himself
drunk like a sot, or hoodwinked by a cunning, unscrupulous woman for
her own vile ends. Silence, sir!" he thundered as La Mothe sprang
forward in protest. "You ask for proofs, and when I come to proofs you
would cry me down with some mewling folly. For her own purposes she
has philandered with you, dallied with you, listened to your love songs
till the crude boy in you thinks she is a saint."

"A saint," answered La Mothe hoarsely, "a saint. I say so--I say so.
A saint as good, as sweet, as pure----" He paused, looking round him
in the darkness, and his eyes caught the faintness of a far-off patch
of grey suspended in mid-air against the gloom. "As pure and good as
these lilies, and the Mother of God they are called, for that, Monsieur
d'Argenton, is Ursula de Vesc."

"Good boy," said Villon, rubbing his hands softly; "he ha