s if he thought of several
things he did not say. What he did say was: "You are a pair of fools,
you and the boy. Whatever he came for, he has spied on us now. He shall
not live to carry the tale of us."

"Then you have me to kill as well!"

Gervais turned on him snarling. Yeux-gris laid a hand on his sword-hilt.

"I will not have an innocent lad hurt. I was not bred a ruffian," he
cried hotly. They glared at each other. Then Yeux-gris, with a sudden
exclamation, "Ah, bah, Gervais!" broke into laughter.

Now, this merriment was a heart-warming thing to hear. For Gervais was
taking the situation with a seriousness that was as terrifying as it was
stupid. When I looked into his dogged eyes I could not but think the end
of me might be near. But Yeux-gris's laugh said the very notion was
ridiculous; I was innocent of all harmful intent, and they were
gentlemen, not cutthroats.

"Messieurs," I said, "I swear by the blessed saints I am what I told
you. I am no spy, and no one sent me here. Who you are, or what you do,
I know no more than a babe unborn. I belong to no party and am no man's
man. As for why you choose to live in this empty house, it is not my
concern and I care no whit about it. Let me go, messieurs, and I will
swear to keep silence about what I have seen."

"I am for letting him go," said Yeux-gris.

Gervais looked doubtful, the most encouraging attitude toward me he had
yet assumed. He answered:

"If he had not said the name--"

"Stuff!" interrupted Yeux-gris. "It is a coincidence, no more. If he
were what you think, it is the very last name he would have said."

This was Greek to me; I had mentioned no names but Maitre Jacques's and
my own. And he was their friend.

"Messieurs," I said, "if it is my name that does not please you, why, I
can say for it that if it is not very high-sounding, at least it is an
honest one and has ever been held so down where we live."

"And that is at St. Quentin," said Yeux-gris.

"Yes, monsieur. My father, Anton Broux, is Master of the Forest to the
Duke of St. Quentin."

He started, and Gervais cried out:

"Voila! who is the fool now?"

My nerves, which had grown tranquil since Yeux-gris came to my rescue,
quivered anew. The common man started at the very word St. Quentin, and
the masters started when I named the duke. Was it he whom they had
spoken of as Monsieur? Who and what were they? There was more in this
than I had thought at first. It was no longer a