icers drew away at a little distance at once before the
suggestion was made, and we were left alone. I was in a white heat, but
yet in fair control.

"You are surprised to see me here," he said. "Did you think the Bastile
was for me? Tut! I had not got out of the country when we a packet came,
bearing fresh commands. La Pompadour forgave me, and in the King's
name bade me return to New France, and in her own she bade me get your
papers, or hang you straight. And--you will think it singular--if need
be, I was to relieve the Governor and Bigot also, and work to save New
France with the excellent Marquis de Montcalm." He laughed. "You can see
how absurd that is. I have held my peace, and I keep my commission in my
pocket."

I looked at him amazed that he should tell me this. He read my look, and
said:

"Yes, you are my confidant in this. I do not fear you. Your enemy
is bound in honour, your friend may seek to serve himself." Again he
laughed. "As if I, Tinoir Doltaire--note the agreeable combination of
peasant and gentleman in my name--who held his hand from ambition for
large things in France, should stake a lifetime on this foolish hazard!
When I play, Captain Moray, it is for things large and vital. Else I
remain the idler, the courtier--the son of the King."

"Yet you lend your vast talent, the genius of those unknown
possibilities, to this, monsieur--this little business of exchange of
prisoners," I retorted ironically.

"That is my whim--a social courtesy."

"You said you knew nothing of the chaplain," I broke out.

"Not so. I said he was on no record given me. Officially I know nothing
of him."

"Come," said I, "you know well how I am concerned for him. You quibble;
you lied to our General."

A wicked light shone in his eyes. "I choose to pass that by, for the
moment," said he. "I am sorry you forget yourself; it were better for
you and me to be courteous till our hour of reckoning, Shall we not meet
some day?" he said, with a sweet hatred in his tone.

"With all my heart."

"But where?"

"In yonder town," said I, pointing.

He laughed provokingly. "You are melodramatic," he rejoined. "I could
hold that town with one thousand men against all your army and five
times your fleet."

"You have ever talked and nothing done," said I. "Will you tell me the
truth of the chaplain?"

"Yes, in private the truth you shall hear," he said. "The man is dead."

"If you speak true, he was murdered," I broke ou