ty--it turned me
faint to think how long we had delayed with old Marceau, we were so
nearly too late. I wanted to seize Monsieur, to convince myself that he
was all safe, to feel him quick and warm.

I made one pace and stopped; for I remembered what ghastly shape stood
between me and Monsieur--that horrible lying story.

"Dieu!" gasped M. Etienne, "Monsieur!"

For a moment we all kept silence, motionless; then Monsieur flung his
sword over the wall.

"Do your will, Etienne."

His son darted forward with a cry.

"Monsieur, Monsieur, I am not your assassin! I came to your aid not
dreaming who you were; but, had I known, I would have fought a hundred
times the harder. I never plotted against you. On the honour of a St.
Quentin I swear it."

Monsieur said naught, and we could not see his face; could not know
whether he believed or rejected, softened or condemned.

M. Etienne, catching at his breath, went on:

"Monsieur, I know it is hard to credit. I have been a bad son to you,
unloving, rebellious, insolent. We quarrelled; I spoke bitter words. But
I am no ruffian. I am a St. Quentin. Had you had me whipped from the
house, still would I never have raised hand against you. I knew nothing
of the plot. Felix told you I was in it--small blame to him. But he was
wrong. I knew naught of it."

Had he been content to rest his case here, I think Monsieur could not
but have believed his innocence on his bare word. The stones in the
pavement must have known that he was uttering truth. But he in his
eagerness paused for no answer, but went on to stun Monsieur with
statements new and amazing to his ear.

"My cousin Grammont--who is dead--was in the plot, and his lackey
Pontou, and Martin the clerk; but the contriver was Lucas."

"Lucas?"

"Lucas," continued M. Etienne. "Or, to give him his true title, Paul de
Lorraine, son of Henri de Guise."

"But that is impossible" Monsieur cried, stupefied.

"It is impossible, but it is true. He is a Lorraine--Mayenne's nephew,
and for years Mayenne's spy. He came to you to kill you--for that
object pure and simple. Last spring, before he came to you, he was here
in Paris with Mayenne, making terms for your murder. He is no Huguenot,
no Kingsman. He is Mayenne's henchman, son to Guise himself."

"And how long have you known this?" asked Monsieur.

"Since this morning." Then, as the import of the question struck him, he
fell back with a groan. "Ah, Monsieur, if you can ask tha