tand?"

We stiffly acknowledged his salute--the priest taking no notice of
us--and followed the servant from the room; going along a corridor and
up a steep flight of stairs, and seeing enough by the way to be sure
that resistance was hopeless. Doors opened silently as we passed, and
grim fellows, in corslets and padded coats, peered out. The clank of
arms and murmur of voices sounded continuously about us; and as we
passed a window the jingle of bits, and the hollow clang of a restless
hoof on the flags below, told us that the great house was for the time
a fortress. I wondered much. For this was Paris, a city with gates
and guards; the night a short August night. Yet the loneliest manor in
Quercy could scarcely have bristled with more pikes and musquetoons, on
a winter's night and in time of war.

No doubt these signs impressed us all; and Croisette not least. For
suddenly I heard him stop, as he followed us up the narrow staircase,
and begin without warning to stumble down again as fast as he could. I
did not know what he was about; but muttering something to Marie, I
followed the lad to see. At the foot of the flight of stairs I looked
back, Marie and the servant were standing in suspense, where I had left
them. I heard the latter bid us angrily to return.

But by this time Croisette was at the end of the corridor; and
reassuring the fellow by a gesture I hurried on, until brought to a
standstill by a man opening a door in my face. He had heard our
returning footsteps, and eyed me suspiciously; but gave way after a
moment with a grunt of doubt I hastened on, reaching the door of the
room in which we had supped in time to see something which filled me
with grim astonishment; so much so that I stood rooted where I was, too
proud at any rate to interfere.

Bezers was standing, the leering priest at his elbow. And Croisette
was stooping forward, his hands stretched out in an attitude of
supplication.

"Nay, but M. le Vidame," the lad cried, as I stood, the door in my
hand, "it were better to stab her at once than break her heart! Have
pity on her! If you kill him, you kill her!"

The Vidame was silent, seeming to glower on the boy. The priest
sneered. "Hearts are soon mended--especially women's," he said.

"But not Kit's!" Croisette said passionately--otherwise ignoring him.
"Not Kit's! You do not know her, Vidame! Indeed you do not!"

The remark was ill-timed. I saw a spasm of anger distort B