clear; but it were unfair to punish him in the same measure as
you punish those who bore arms against you, Sire."

"Ah!" he pondered. "Well? What more?"

"Is that not enough, Sire?" I cried. My heart beat quickly, and my
pulses throbbed with the suspense of that portentous moment.

He bent his head, dipped his pen and began to write.

"What punishment would you have me mete out to him?" he asked as he
wrote. "Come, Marcel, deal fairly with me, and deal fairly with him--for
as you deal with him, so shall I deal with you through him."

I felt myself paling in my excitement. "There is banishment, Sire--it
is usual in cases of treason that are not sufficiently flagrant to be
punished by death."

"Yes!" He wrote busily. "Banishment for how long, Marcel? For his
lifetime?"

"Nay, Sire. That were too long."

"For my lifetime, then?"

"Again that were too long."

He raised his eyes and smiled. "Ah! You turn prophet? Well, for how
long, then? Come, man."

"I should think five years--"

"Five years be it. Say no more."

He wrote on for a few moments; then he raised the sandbox and sprinkled
the document.

"Tiens!" he cried, as he dusted it and held it out to me. "There is my
warrant for the disposal of Monsieur le Vicomte Leon de Lavedan. He is
to go into banishment for five years, but his estates shall suffer no
sequestration, and at the end of that period he may return and enjoy
them--we hope with better loyalty than in the past. Get them to execute
that warrant at once, and see that the Vicomte starts to-day under
escort for Spain. It will also be your warrant to Mademoiselle de
Lavedan, and will afford proof to her that your mission has been
successful."

"Sire!" I cried. And in my gratitude I could say no more, but I sank on
my knee before him and raised his hand to my lips.

"There," said he in a fatherly voice. "Go now, and be happy."

As I rose, he suddenly put up his hand.

"Ma foi, I had all but forgotten, so much has Monsieur de Lavedan's fate
preoccupied us." He picked up another paper from his table, and tossed
it to me. It was my note of hand to Chatellerault for my Picardy
estates.

"Chatellerault died this morning," the King pursued. "He had been asking
to see you, but when he was told that you had left Toulouse, he dictated
a long confession of his misdeeds, which he sent to me together with
this note of yours. He could not, he wrote, permit his heirs to enjoy
your estates; he had not w