him now; he was M. de
Perrencourt, Madame's gentleman.

Without wavering or pausing, straight he walked. Monmouth seemed turned
to stone; I could see his face set and rigid, although light failed me
to catch that look in the eyes by which you may best know a man's mood.
Not a sound or a motion came from Carford. Barbara herself was stiff and
still, her regard bent on M. de Perrencourt. He stood now directly over
against her and Monmouth; it seemed long before he spoke. Indeed, I had
looked for Monmouth's voice first, for an oath of vexation at the
interruption, for a curse on the intruder and a haughty order to him to
be gone and not interfere with what concerned his betters. No such word,
nor any words, issued from the mouth of the Duke. And still M. de
Perrencourt was silent. Carford stole covertly from the steps nearer to
the group until, gliding across the hall, he was almost at the
Frenchman's elbow. Still M. de Perrencourt was silent.

Slowly and reluctantly, as though in deference to an order that he
loathed but dared not disobey, Monmouth drew his arm away; he loosed
Barbara's hand, she drew back, leaning against the wall; the Duke stood
with his arms by his side, looking at the man who interrupted his sport
and seemed to have power to control his will. Then, at last, in crisp,
curt, ungracious tones, M. de Perrencourt spoke.

"I thank you, Monsieur le Duc," said he. "I was sure that you would
perceive your error soon. This is not the lady you supposed, this is
Mistress Quinton. I desire to speak with her, pray give me leave."

The King would not have spoken in this style to his pampered son, and
the Duke of York himself dared not have done it. But no touch of
uneasiness or self-distrust appeared in M. de Perrencourt's smooth
cutting speech. Truly he was high in Madame's confidence, and, likely
enough, a great man in his own country; but, on my life, I looked to see
the hot-tempered Duke strike him across the face. Even I, who had been
about to interfere myself, by some odd momentary turn of feeling
resented the insolence with which Monmouth was assailed. Would he not
resent it much more for himself? No. For an instant I heard his quick
breathing, the breathing of a man who fights anger, holding it under
with great labour and struggling. Then he spoke; in his voice also there
was passion hard held.

"Here, sir, and everywhere," he said, "you have only to command to be
obeyed." Slowly he bent his head low, t