a deep breath which might have been a sigh or a moan Louis lay
back. His eyes were closed, but his whole air had changed: the lips
were firm-pressed in a thin line, the fingers no longer plucked at this
or that in a nervous attempt to hide their nervousness by a pretence at
animation, and from long experience Commines knew that he had forced
himself to some unusual effort at concentrated thought. But the
outcome of the thought surprised and disappointed the watcher.

"La Mothe?"

"Sire, I vouch for La Mothe."

"God's name, Philip, has the fool nothing to say for himself?"

"I had forgotten. To-day's blessed relief drove it from my head. Can
you blame me, Sire, if I forgot everything but my joy? Last night, as
I left Amboise, he said, 'Pray Heaven the King still lives. Tell him
that within twelve hours I shall have fulfilled the order he gave me.'"

"Twelve hours? Twelve hours? Philip, by your salvation, have you told
me the truth to-day? Charles? My son? That he said those things?
More hangs on it than you can guess. As you love me, Philip, and as I
have made you what you are, do not deceive me."

"Most true, Sire; I would plead for the Dauphin----"

"Plead? What need have you to plead, you or any man? Plead? Your
officiousness goes too far. Is he not my son? Who is on duty?"

"Beaufoy, Sire."

"Pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy to me--now, this very instant.
Go, man, go! Why do you stand staring there like a wax image? Oh!
pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy--do you not hear? Send Beaufoy,
send Beaufoy this instant! Beaufoy! Beaufoy! And, Philip, have the
fastest horse in Valmy saddled and ready. Go, Philip, go! Make haste,
for the love of Heaven, make haste! Beaufoy! Beaufoy!"

Uncomprehending, but terror-shaken at the sudden outburst which filled
Louis' frail body with passion, Commines hastened to the door. He
thought he had sounded all his master's shifting moods, but this agony
of a fear not for himself, this pathos of horror, was new to him.
Dimly he understood that the antagonism to the Dauphin had broken down
finally and for ever. La Mothe was right, it had not been so hard to
draw the father to the son. But why call for Beaufoy? Why such
anxiety of haste? Why that scream of fear in the voice? Beyond the
door stood Beaufoy, perplexed and startled.

"The King--go to him."

"Ill? Dying?"

"No, he needs you. Go at once--at once," answered Commines, with a
j