As to the Dauphin,
when I return----"

"When you return!" echoed Villon drearily. "Did Molembrais return?
Saxe knew too much, and Saxe is dead. You will be the next, for you
know more than Saxe ever guessed at."

"Saxe dead?" said Ursula, turning to Villon in her distress. "Monsieur
Villon, how did Saxe die?"

"Do not ask me, but persuade La Mothe to keep away from Valmy; let him
go anywhere--anywhere, but not to Valmy. Remember Molembrais, and
Monsieur La Mothe has not even a safe-conduct."

"Stephen, Stephen, for my sake! Oh, that terrible King!"

"Beloved, I must go to Valmy, my word is pledged. Help me to be strong
to go; you who are so loyal and so brave, be brave now for me. Surely
to be brave for another is love itself! But, Villon, the Dauphin must
know nothing of what has happened. Let him be happy while he can.
Take away poor Charlot and that horrible thing, and leave me to make up
a tale. Ursula, go and play with the dogs--anything that he may not
see the pain on your dear face. He is coming back--listen how he
laughs, poor lad! Go, Villon; go, man, go, go!"

"Blaise broke his knife-blade and never dented a link!" cried the boy,
rushing in as Villon disappeared. Never had Ursula de Vesc seen him so
full of a child's joyous life, a child's flood-tide of the gladness of
living, and so little like the dull, unhappy, suspicion-haunted dauphin
of France. "Father John says I look like a Crusader, but I would
rather be Roland. Now I must wear my mask."

"Monseigneur, will you ever forgive my carelessness? but Charlot has
torn it."

"Charlot? Where is Charlot?"

"Sent away in disgrace. As a punishment he is banished for a week."

"But my mask, I want my mask!"

"It is spoiled, and I must get you a new one--a better one."

"But I don't want a new one or a better one; I want this one, and I
want it now! It was very careless, Monsieur La Mothe, and I am very
angry with you."

"Charles! Charles!" broke in the Franciscan, "Roland would never have
said that; and I am sure it was not Monsieur La Mothe's fault."

For a moment the boy turned upon the priest in a child's gust of
passion at the interruption, his face a struggle between petulance and
tears. Then he tilted his chin, squaring his meagre shoulders under
the coat-of-mail as he supposed Roland might have done.

"You are right, Father, though you do come from Valmy. Monsieur La
Mothe, I am sorry for what I said, and do not for