there are many besides myself who
have vowed to have revenge on the Duke, and their time will come, have
no fear. A quiet shot in the woods in the dusk of the evening would
settle many a long account. It has been tried, but the old man seems
to have the luck of the evil one; and if the gun did not miss fire, the
bullets flew wide of the mark. A judge might take a very serious view of
such a matter, and term a crime what was merely an act of justice. Who
can say whether the death of the Duke de Champdoce might not save him
from the commission of many acts of tyranny and oppression and render
many deserving persons happy?"

The face of Diana de Laurebourg turned deadly pale as she listened to
these specious arguments.

"As things go," continued Daumon, "the Duke may go on living to a
hundred; he is wealthy and influential, and to a certain degree looked
up to. He will die peacefully in his bed, there will be a magnificent
funeral, and masses will be sung for the repose of his soul."

While he spoke the Counsellor had taken the little bottle from beside
his account books and was turning it over and over between his fingers.

"Yes," murmured he, thoughtfully; "the Duke is quite likely to outlive
us all, unless, indeed----"

He took the cork from the bottle, and poured a little of the contents
into the palm of his hand. A few grains of fine white powder, glittering
like crystal, appeared on the brown skin of the Counsellor.

"And yet," he went on, in cold, sinister accents, "let him take but
a small pinch of this, and no one need fear his tyranny again in this
world. No one is much afraid of a man who lies some six feet under
ground, shut up in a strong oak coffin, with a finely carved gravestone
over his head."

He stopped short, and fixed his keen eyes upon the agitated girl, who
stood in front of him. For at least two minutes the man and the girl
stood face to face, motionless, and without exchanging a word. Through
the dead, weird silence, the pulsations of their hearts were plainly
audible. It seemed as if before speaking again each wished to fathom the
depths of guilt that lay in the other's heart. It was a compact entered
into by look and not by speech; and Daumon so well understood this, that
at length, when he did speak, his voice sank to a hoarse whisper, as
though he himself feared to listen to the utterance of his own thoughts.

"A man taking this feels no pain. It is like a heavy, stunning blow on
the