ire."

The King looked sardonic, but his laugh had a human ring.

"He is too pretty to kill," he declared, dramatically. "We'll forgive
him for your sake. And now good night."

"So soon?" asked Portsmouth, anxiously.

"It is late," he replied.

"Not while the King is here," she sighed. "Night comes only when he
departs."

"Your words are sweet," said Charles, thoughtfully observing her.

She sighed again.

"My thoughts stumble in your speech," she said. "I regret I have not
English blood within my veins."

"And why?"

"The King would trust and love me then. He does not now. I am French and
powerless to do him good."

There was a touch of honest sadness in her speech which awakened the
King's sympathy.

"Nay," he said hastily, to comfort her; "'tis thy fancy. Thy
entertainment hath made me grateful--to Louis and Louise."

"Think not of Louis and Louise," she said, sadly and reproachfully, "but
of thy dear self and England's glory. For shame! Ah, Sire, my
childhood-dreams were of sunny France, where I was born; at
Versailles--at Fontainebleau among the monarch trees--my early womanhood
sighed for love. France gave me all but that. It came not till I saw the
English King!"

The siren of the Nile never looked more bewitchingly beautiful than this
siren of France as she half reclined upon the couch, playing upon the
King's heart with a bit of memory. His great nature realized her sorrow
and encompassed it.

"And am I not good to thee, child?" he asked. He took her hand and
responded to her eyes, though not with the tenderness of love--the
tenderness for which she sought.

"You are good to none," she replied, bitterly; "for you are not good to
Charles."

"You speak enigmas," he said, curious.

"Have you forgotten your promise?" she asked, naively.

"Nay; the passport, pretty one?" he answered, amused at the woman's
wiles. "All this subterfuge of words for that! There; rest in peace. Thy
friend hath a path to France at will."

He smiled kindly as he took the passport from his girdle, handed it to
her and turned to take his leave.

"My thanks are yours. Stay, Sire," she said, hastily; for her mission
was not yet complete and the night was now well gone. "Passports are
trifles. Will you not leave the Dutch to Louis and his army? Think!"

She placed her arms about his neck and looked enticingly into his eyes.

"But," he replied, kindly, "my people demand that I intervene and stay
my brother Louis's