rest, shrewd-faced and grizzled.
"What do you think, Perrault; can we do it?"

"Enter Amboise?"

"Enter Valmy."

But Beaufoy could control himself no longer. "Monsieur, whoever you
are, I demand back the King's order. These instructions are for me
alone and I must----"

"What? More musts? No, no, you have done all a man of honour can
do--except hold your tongue and acknowledge the inevitable. Jan and
Michault, take Monsieur Beaufoy into the field yonder, but quietly,
courteously."

"Courteously!" foamed Beaufoy, struggling vainly as he was hustled
across the road out of earshot. "Curse your courtesy, footpad! Some
day you shall answer me for this."

"If the King permits," was the ironic reply. "Be a little more gentle,
Jan. Now, Perrault?"

"Monsieur Marc, they will never let us into Valmy."

"Not all of us, not you--I alone."

"Alone? Monsieur Marc, you would never venture----"

"Never venture? As God lives, Perrault, I would venture to the gates
of hell for just five minutes with Louis of France, and you know it."

"But it is impossible."

"Desperate, not impossible. This," and he shook the paper in his
closed hand, "gives me Stephen La Mothe; La Mothe has the King's
signet, he told Villon and Villon told Saxe; the signet gives me Valmy
if I have any luck. La Mothe and the King at one cast--La Mothe,
through whom I have twice missed the Dauphin! Perrault, I'll do it; by
all the saints, I'll do it."

"Yes," said Perrault, and there was a wistful tenderness in his rough
voice, "you may get into Valmy, but, Master Marc, you'll never win out
again."

"Old friend, would you have me turn coward with such a chance flung in
my way? And would Guy have done less for me?"

But Perrault returned no answer.

CHAPTER XXX

"LOVE IS MY LIFE"

"Blessed be the man who first invented sleep," said the wise Spaniard.
And yet there are times when even a sleepless night can leave a light
heart behind it. For the first time since coming to Amboise Stephen La
Mothe felt at peace with himself and with all the world, though the
latter is a secondary consideration. As between the two disturbers of
his comfort a man's most triumphant foe is his conscience. And he had
good cause for comfort. When at their very worst, things had gone well
with him, and as he reckoned up his mercies the morning Paul Beaufoy
rode post from Valmy, he found his pouch of life full to the rim with
white stones.

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