nd? He was in the right, and... and there are things one
cannot ask; things it would be a useless humiliation to ask." He sat
down, groaning. "Oh, the poor boy--the poor, misguided boy."

In the mind of neither, you see, was there any doubt of what must be the
issue. The calm confidence in which La Tour d'Azyr had spoken compelled
itself to be shared. He was no vainglorious boaster, and they knew of
what a force as a swordsman he was generally accounted.

"What does humiliation matter? A life is at issue--Andre's life."

"I know. My God, don't I know? And I would humiliate myself if by
humiliating myself I could hope to prevail. But Azyr is a hard,
relentless man, and..."

Abruptly she left him.

She overtook the Marquis as he was in the act of stepping his carriage.
He turned as she called, and bowed.

"Mademoiselle?"

At once he guessed her errand, tasted in anticipation the unparalleled
bitterness of being compelled to refuse her. Yet at her invitation he
stepped back into the cool of the hall.

In the middle of the floor of chequered marbles, black and white, stood
a carved table of black oak. By this he halted, leaning lightly against
it whilst she sat enthroned in the great crimson chair beside it.

"Monsieur, I cannot allow you so to depart," she said. "You cannot
realize, monsieur, what a blow would be dealt my uncle if... if evil,
irrevocable evil were to overtake his godson to-morrow. The expressions
that he used at first..."

"Mademoiselle, I perceived their true value. Spare yourself. Believe me
I am profoundly desolated by circumstances which I had not expected to
find. You must believe me when I say that. It is all that I can say."

"Must it really be all? Andre is very dear to his godfather."

The pleading tone cut him like a knife; and then suddenly it aroused
another emotion--an emotion which he realized to be utterly unworthy,
an emotion which, in his overwhelming pride of race, seemed almost
sullying, yet not to be repressed. He hesitated to give it utterance;
hesitated even remotely to suggest so horrible a thing as that in a man
of such lowly origin he might conceivably discover a rival. Yet that
sudden pang of jealousy was stronger than his monstrous pride.

"And to you, mademoiselle? What is this Andre-Louis Moreau to you? You
will pardon the question. But I desire clearly to understand."

Watching her he beheld the scarlet stain that overspread her face.
He read in it at first con