st, Uncle, that you should say such a thing?
No, not wine-drunk. Love-drunk, war-drunk, fighting-drunk. To feel
the nerves tingle, the blood run hot, the heart go throbbing mad! to
feel a glorious exultation quiver through you like--yes, Uncle, I know
I'm a fool, but it's not so long since you were young yourself."

"Nor am I so old yet, Stephen boy. When that day of your drunkenness
comes there will either be a very happy woman or a sorrowful man."

"Yes, Uncle, if only the King gives me a safe-conduct----"

"The King requires the attendance of Monsieur Stephen La Mothe without
delay."

With a start like the cringe of a nervous woman suddenly frightened,
Commines, the man of iron nerves, turned to the door, the colour
rushing in a flood to his face. Neither had heard its latch click nor
seen it open, but the broad figure of a burly man was massed in the
gloom against the greater light from the outer entrance. A passing
torch, flaring up the hall-way from behind, showed him draped from
throat to ankle in some self-coloured, russet-red, woollen stuff which
caught the glare, and outlined him for the moment as with sweeping
curves of blood. To La Mothe he was a stranger, but from the little he
could see of the shaven face, at once harsh and fleshly sensual, he
judged him to be nearly twenty years older than Commines.

"You--Tristan----" The surprise had shaken even Commines from his
self-control and he spoke brokenly. "How long have you been here?"

"Since the King sent me for Monsieur La Mothe. At once, if you please,
Monsieur."

"But it was to-morrow----"

"He has changed his mind. What is to be done is best done quickly.
You, Monsieur d'Argenton, will understand what the King means by
quickly. I know nothing but that you are to leave Valmy to-morrow
morning instead of the day after, and so he must see Monsieur La Mothe
to-night. As Monsieur d'Argenton's friend, Monsieur La Mothe, I would
advise humble acquiescence."

"In what?" It was the first time La Mothe had spoken, and in his
repugnance he could not bring himself to add the courtesy "Monsieur" to
the curt question.

"Our Master's will, whatever it may be. It is a privilege, young sir,
to further the justice of the King."

"The justice of the King!" replied La Mothe, carried hotly away by that
repugnance. "God's name, Provost-Marshal, I am not--not--not the
King's arm, like you," he added lamely. But though Tristan might
neither forgive