im but obedience. I see no other way, no other hope."

The touch upon his arm was half appeal, half admonition, wholly
friendly, but La Mothe winced as he shrank from it. There are times
when human sympathy is the very salvation of the reason and the one
comfort possible to the bruised spirit, but now the solitary instinct
of the sick animal was upon him and he longed to be alone. Some
sorrows are so personal they cannot be shared. Nor was it all sorrow.
There was the passion of a fierce resentment, the bitter protest of
helpless nature against a wanton and callous outrage.

As plainly as if Commines had said it in so many words he understood
that, sinless or sinning, Ursula de Vesc was to be sacrificed to some
state advantage; he understood, too, that neither Commines nor the King
cared greatly whether she was innocent or guilty, and that but for his
sake Commines would have given her hardly a second thought. Saxe lies!
What matter? The state must progress. Saxe lies! What matter?
Better one suffer than the many. Saxe lies! What matter? We will
save her together by the one way possible.

Did he remember that first night in Amboise? Had he ever forgotten?
Even in his plays of make-believe had he ever forgotten? The mind has
a way of laying aside the unpalatable in some pigeon-hole of memory; it
is out of sight, not forgotten. Yes, he remembered. Then it had been
obedience to the King, service to the man to whom he owed everything
and a duty to France. Now, more tremendous than all, Ursula de Vesc's
life was thrown suddenly into the scale. That was Commines' plain
statement. Nor was he conscious of any resentment against Commines.
If Jean Saxe held to his story Commines could have no alternative, and
if not Commines, it would be another, another less kindly.

No? His rebellion, the bitter upheaval of spirit, was against the
conspiracy of iron circumstances which hedged him round on every side,
a rebellion such as a man might feel who finds himself in silent
darkness bound hand and foot with grave-clothes, while his brain is
still quick and every nerve quivering with the passionate desire for
life. "I see no hope," said Commines, "no hope but the one way," and
Stephen La Mothe knew that one way was murder. Abruptly he turned upon
his heel.

"The half-hour must be almost up," he said; "let us go to her."

CHAPTER XXIII

JEAN SAXE IS EXPLICIT

"Say to Mademoiselle de Vesc that Monsieur d'