lity of roses to be sweet. But, La Mothe, say nothing
to her; it would spoil her happiness, and we seldom get pure gold to
spend through a whole day of life," a cynical truth La Mothe was to
remember before a new morning dawned.

"Villon, how can you sit there drinking his wine?"

"My friend, would Saxe be the less hanged if I went thirsty? And, to
be serious, if to go thirsty would unhang him, I would drink a second
bottle of wine to make certain. If he had lived to fight for his life
like a mad dog, as he would have done, Heaven knows how many he would
have bitten. As it is, peace to him, and God be thanked there is no
infection in a ten-foot rope. And yet I don't know! When I think of
it, La Mothe, there is such an uncomforting resemblance between us
three that I wonder which will go next."

"I admit no resemblance, at least to Saxe."

"Do you not? A fortnight ago he palmed off his bad wine upon me, I
palmed you upon the Dauphin, and you palmed your bad verses off upon
mademoiselle. Now Saxe is hung, and--bah! your presentation will save
us two."

"You use too big a word, it is nothing but a trifling remembrance."

"It is a poet's privilege to use what words he chooses, and I choose
presentation. Or," he pushed out his loose lips as he leered up at La
Mothe with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, "shall I call it another
intelligent anticipation? No, your own word will do better--a
remembrance. The King--God bless him!--will presently die in earnest;
the Dauphin, being King, will presently forget Monsieur Stephen La
Mothe, forget the race for life on Grey Roland's back, forget the
stairs of the Burnt Mill. Short memories are common diseases in
princes. When, lo!--a wise youth you are, La Mothe--a remembrance jogs
his recollection, and the King who had forgotten rewards Monsieur
Stephen La Mothe for having saved the Dauphin's life twice over.
Monsieur La Mothe's fortune is made all through his intelligent
anticipation in bringing a presentation to Amboise by way of
remembrance. Faith! La Mothe, it was almost prophetic, and prophets
fare badly in Amboise. Look at Hugues! Look at Saxe! That ten-foot
rope may be infectious after all."

"Villon, you are quite wrong."

"Pray God!" answered Villon soberly. "It's an ill of the flesh few
recover from. But let us go to the Chateau." Pushing the unemptied
bottle from him he rose with a sigh. His puckish, ironic humour had
changed; gaiety was utterly g