ief of the League, the
commander of the allied armies, debase yourself in stooping to take
vengeance on a stable-boy."

"It is no question of vengeance; it is a question of safety," he
answered impatiently. Yet I marvelled that he answered at all, since
absolute power is not obliged to give an account of itself.

"Is your estate then so tottering that a stable-boy can overturn it? In
that case be advised. Go hang yourself, monsieur, while there is yet
time."

He flushed with anger, and this time he offered no justification. He
advanced on the girl with outstretched hand.

"Mademoiselle, it is not my habit to take advice from the damsels of my
household. Nor do I admit them to my council-room. Permit me then to
conduct you to the staircase."

She retreated toward the threshold where I stood, still covering me as
with a shield.

"Monsieur, you are very cruel to me."

"Your hand, mademoiselle."

She did not yield it to him but held out both hands, clasped in appeal.

"Monsieur, you have always been my loving kinsman. I have always tried
to do your pleasure. I thought you meant harm to the boy because he was
a servant to M. de Mar, and I knew that M. de St. Quentin, at least, had
gone over to the other side. I did not know what you would do with him,
and I could not rest in my bed because it was through me he came here.
Monsieur, if I was foolish and frightened and indiscreet, do not punish
the lad for my wrong-doing."

Mayenne was still holding out his hand for her.

"I wish you sweet dreams, my cousin Lorance."

"Monsieur," she cried, shrinking back till she stood against the
door-jamb, "will you not let the boy go?"

"How will you look to-morrow," he said with his unchanged smile, "if
you lose all your sleep to-night, my pretty Lorance?"

"A reproach to you," she answered quickly. "You will mark my white
cheeks and my red eyes, and you will say, 'Now, there is my little
cousin Lorance, my good ally Montluc's daughter, and I have made her cry
her eyes blind over my cruelty. Her father, dying, gave her to me to
guard and cherish, and I have made her miserable. I am sorry. I wish I
had not done it.'"

"Mademoiselle," the duke repeated, "will you get to your bed?"

She did not stir, but, fixing him with her brilliant eyes, went on as if
thinking aloud.

"I remember when I was a tiny maid of five or six, and you and your
brother Guise (whom God rest!) would come to our house. You would ask my
father to