y ingenuous friend. Why to Amboise? You won't tell?
But, by God, you shall! Do you think I'll be baulked for a scruple?"
His hand crept to his hilt as he spoke; now, with a swift wrench the
blade was out and its point at Beaufoy's throat. "Come, your message?"

But Beaufoy only shook his head. The age had the quality of its
defects. The law that might was right had bred a contempt for life,
one's own or another's, it mattered little which. In the great game of
national aggression the single life is a very small thing, and the man
who slew without pity could die without fear. If any second incentive
were needed, Beaufoy found it in the gibe at his name. Beaufoy would
hold good faith let it cost Beaufoy what it might. Stiffening himself
rigidly he answered nothing.

"Come, the message! I'll have it, though I rip it out of you. You
won't answer? Then there is no help for it. Once!"--and the point
touched--"twice!"--and the point pricked--"three times! Monsieur, you
are a brave fool, but on your life do not stir. Grip him by the
elbows, Jan. Now you, Michault, go through his pockets. What first?
An empty purse! And yet you must have a horse, must you? Was I to
collect its price at Valmy, my good sir? When I go to Valmy it will be
for more than the life of a horse. Next, a woman's ribbon! No wonder
the purse was empty. A paper! Give it me--a love-letter! I
congratulate you, Monsieur Beaufoy, and return it without reading the
signature. No doubt the empty purse is justified. May she show as
firm a faith as you have done; her cause is the better of the two. Now
that. This time we have it. Monsieur Beaufoy, you have done
everything a brave and honourable gentleman could do. Give me your
parole to hurt neither yourself nor us and Jan will release your arms."

Panting, every nerve tense with impotent resentment, Paul Beaufoy
looked up into the not unkindly eyes turned down to his. A
physiognomist would have said it was a reckless face rather than an
evil one. The blade had been lowered, but Jan's muscular hands still
held his elbows behind his back in an iron grip; beyond him was
Michault. No prisoner in shackles was more helpless.

"For this time," he said between his teeth; "but God granting me
life----"

"Let go your hold, Jan. Monsieur Beaufoy, I trust you as I would never
trust that brute without a soul you call King. Trust the King? God
help the man who trusts King Louis! One very