of her hand, watched him.

"Ah?" she exclaimed at length, with a ring of contempt in her voice, as
if at the thought of something unclean. "A spy! It is so easy for you to
keep still, and to hide all you feel."

D'Arragon folded the letter slowly. It was the fatal letter written
in the upper room in the shoemaker's house in Konigsberg in the Neuer
Markt, where the linden trees grow close to the window. In it Charles
spoke lightly of the sacrifice he had made in leaving Desiree on his
wedding-day, to do the Emperor's bidding. It was indeed the greatest
sacrifice that man can make; for he had thrown away his honour.

"It may not be so easy as you think," returned D'Arragon, looking
towards the door.

He had no time to say more; for Mathilde and her father were talking
together on the stairs as they came down. D'Arragon thrust the letters
into his pocket, the only indication he had time to give to Desiree of
the policy they must pursue. He stood facing the door, alert and quiet,
with only a moment in which to shape the course of more than one life.

"There is good news, Monsieur," he said to Sebastian. "Though I did not
come to bring it."

Sebastian pointed interrogatively to the open window, where the sound
of the bells seemed to emphasize the sunlight and the freshness of the
morning.

"No--not that," returned D'Arragon. "It is a great victory, they tell
me; but it is hard to say whether such news would be good or bad. It was
of Charles that I spoke. He is safe--Madame has heard."

He spoke rather slowly, and turned towards Desiree with a measured
gesture, not unlike Sebastian's habitual manner, and a quick glance to
satisfy himself that she had understood and was ready.

"Yes," said Desiree, "he was safe and well after the battle, but he
gives no details; for the letter was actually written the day before."

"With a mere word, added in postscriptum, to say that he was unhurt
at the end of the day," suggested Sebastian, already drawing forward
a chair with a gesture full of hospitality, inviting D'Arragon to be
seated at the simple breakfast-table. But D'Arragon was looking at
Mathilde, who had gone rather hurriedly to the window, as if to breathe
the air. He had caught a glimpse of her face as she passed. It was hard
and set, quite colourless, with bright, sleepless eyes. D'Arragon was
a sailor. He had seen that look in rougher faces and sterner eyes, and
knew what it meant.

"No details?" asked Mathilde i