being sentenced to death. But tell me of it. The whole story, Marcel. I
have not heard a story worth the listening to since--since you left us."

"Would it please you, Sire, to send for the Comte de Chatellerault ere I
begin?" I asked.

"Chatellerault? No, no." He shook his head whimsically. "Chatellerault
has had his laugh already, and, like the ill-mannered dog he is, he has
kept it to himself. I think, Marcel, that it is our turn now. I have
purposely sent Chatellerault away that he may gain no notion of the
catastrophic jest we are preparing him in return."

The words set me in the very best of humours, and to that it may be due
that presently, as I warmed to my narrative, I lent it a vigour that
drew His Majesty out of his wonted apathy and listlessness. He leaned
forward when I told him of my encounter with the dragoons at Mirepoix,
and how first I had committed the false step of representing myself to
be Lesperon.

Encouraged by his interest, I proceeded, and I told my story with as
much piquancy as I was master of, repressing only those slight matters
which might reflect upon Monsieur de Lavedan's loyalty, but otherwise
dealing frankly with His Majesty, even down to the genuineness of the
feelings I entertained for Roxalanne. Often he laughed, more often still
he nodded approvingly, in understanding and sympathy, whilst now and
then he purred his applause. But towards the end, when I came to the
matter of the Tribunal of Toulouse, of how my trial was conducted, and
of the part played in it by Chatellerault, his face grew set and hard.

"It is true--all this that you tell me?" he cried harshly.

"As true as the Gospels. If you deem an oath necessary, Sire, I swear
by my honour that I have uttered nothing that is false, and that, in
connection with Monsieur de Chatellerault, even as I have suppressed
nothing, so also have I exaggerated nothing."

"The dastard!" he snapped. "But we will avenge you, Marcel. Never fear
it."

Then the trend of his thoughts being changed, he smiled wearily.

"By my faith, you may thank God every night of your worthless life that
I came so opportunely to Toulouse, and so may that fair child whose
beauty you have limned with such a lover's ardour. Nay, never redden,
Marcel. What? At your age, and with such a heavy score of affaires to
your credit, has it been left for a simple Languedoc maiden to call a
blush to your callous cheek? Ma foi, they say truly that love is a great