o
had schemed to kill him, will-o'-the-wisp who had lured his son to
disaster. Partly was it mere absence; M. Etienne's plight was more to
him than mademoiselle's. When she spoke not, he turned impatiently to
me.

"Tell me, Felix, all about it."

Before I could answer him the door behind us opened to admit two
gentlemen, shoulder to shoulder. They were dressed much alike, plainly,
in black. One was about thirty years of age, tall, thin-faced, and dark,
and of a gravity and dignity beyond his years. Living was serious
business to him; his eyes were thoughtful, steady, and a little cold.
His companion was some ten years older; his beard and curling hair, worn
away from his forehead by the helmet's chafing, were already sprinkled
with gray. He had a great beak of a nose and dark-gray eyes, as keen as
a hawk's, and a look of amazing life and vim. The air about him seemed
to tingle with it. We had all done something, we others; we were no
shirks or sluggards: but the force in him put us out, penny candles
before the sun. I deem not Jeanne the Maid did any marvel when she
recognized King Charles at Chinon. Here was I, a common lout, never
heard a heavenly voice in all my days, yet I knew in the flick of an eye
that this was Henri Quatre.

I was hot and cold and trembling, my heart pounding till it was like to
choke me. I had never dreamed of finding myself in the presence. I had
never thought to face any man greater than my duke. For the moment I was
utterly discomfited. Then I bethought me that not for God alone were
knees given to man, and I slid down quietly to the floor, hoping I did
right, but reflecting for my comfort that in any case I was too small to
give great offence.

Mademoiselle started out of her chair and swept a curtsey almost to the
ground, holding the lowly pose like a lady of marble. Only Monsieur
remained standing as he was, as if a king was an every-day affair with
him. I always thought Monsieur a great man, but now I knew it.

The king, leaving his companion to close the door, was across the room
in three strides.

"I am come to look after you, St. Quentin," he cried, laughing. "I
cannot have my council broken up by pretty grisettes. The precedent is
dangerous."

With the liveliest curiosity and amusement he surveyed the top of
mademoiselle's bent head, and Monsieur's puzzled, troubled countenance.

"This is no grisette, Sire," Monsieur answered, "but a very high-born
demoiselle indeed--cousi