om thought Ursula de Vesc was yet swifter in
her reply.

"I think you mean to be kind, Monsieur d'Argenton, and for that I am
grateful. Saxe, we are waiting."

"Two days ago Hugues came to me again. I was in the stables----"

"Where Hugues flung you into the horse-trough last month for speaking
disrespectfully of the Dauphin?"

"Mademoiselle, you must not interrupt; later you can question Saxe if
you wish."

"I wished to show you what good friends they were, these two. Hugues
cannot speak for himself."

"He had need of me," said Saxe sullenly, "and that was the reason he
came to me as I say. I was grooming Grey Roland. 'He saved a King for
France,' said Hugues, with his hand on his neck, 'and what a King he
will make, so grateful, so generous. Not a man who helps him will be
forgotten. And it won't be long now. Saxe,' he said, 'you should join
us while there is time.' 'Who are us?' said I. But he wouldn't answer
that. 'You could hang us all if you knew,' he said. So I told him
that unless I had at least one name I wouldn't listen to him. What was
he but a servant? So he stood rubbing his chin awhile, then he said,
'We need you, Saxe, for you have the horses we want and you know Valmy,
so I'll tell you who is the brain of it all and the keenest next to the
Dauphin himself--Mademoiselle de Vesc.'"

"A lie," said La Mothe, "the damnedest lie that ever came out of hell.
Finish your lies, Saxe."

Sternly Commines turned upon him. "You are here only on sufferance;
either leave the room or be silent."

"Monsieur d'Argenton, it is every man's right----" began La Mothe; but
Ursula de Vesc, turning in her chair, laid a hand upon his arm.

"Wait," she said, smiling up at him bravely; "but I am grateful to you
all the same. So I am the brain of it all, Saxe?"

"I only know what Hugues told me," answered Saxe, looking straight
before him. Of the two he was the more disturbed. His scalp tingled,
and again the little points of perspiration were glistening on his
forehead. Her quietness frightened him. To have shouted down a
passion of protest, a passion of terrified, angry denial, would have
been more natural. "He said you sent him on both days, you and
Monseigneur. You were both afraid the King would suspect the truth----"

"The truth!" repeated the girl, and for the first time her voice shook;
"but it is all a lie, as Monsieur La Mothe says, a clumsy lie, and yet
I see that it may serve its purpo