But let it not be supposed that we trusted entirely to Jean Volran's oath; those who served Louis' court of honour too easily found absolution for vows broken in the King's interest. From the watch-tower in the steeple of Saint Suzanna the band of five were seen to ride northward, and when, having dined, we left La Voulle, it was with an armed company of the townfolk, to do honour, as Brother Paul said, to Monseigneur the Count de Foix.

These we dismissed as soon as Morsigny was in sight; nor did we lose time on our way. It was little Gaston's first forced march, and hugely he enjoyed it. But we elders were silent; when the heart is troubled, the tongue commonly takes holiday. Once only did Brother Paul speak.

"From the bottom of my heart I pity him," he said, turning to me suddenly.

"Pity whom? Jean Volran?"

"That most unhappy man, Louis of France. I sometimes think—though it is heresy, from which God deliver us all!—I sometimes think we make our own hell, people it with devils of our own creating, and by dwelling with them become like them."

"If by hell you mean our own follies," I began bitterly, but Brother Paul stopped me, and his voice was infinitely gentle.

"No, my son, no—not that; such pains truly are stripes of healing. But Louis! What a mind he must have to think that every man is such another as himself, and—oh, for poor human nature!—how often he must have found it true. To every man his price! But it is a lie, a lie, and to-day proves it a lie. I am glad, though, that you go back with us first to Morsigny. Mademoiselle de Narbonne has a shrewder head than I, though I am thrice her age. She may help us in our straits. I have great faith in Mademoiselle de Narbonne."

"Mademoiselle de Narbonne?"

"Yes, Suzanne."

"But I thought she was Mademoiselle D'Orfeuil?"

Brother Paul smiled and shook his head.

"That was some jest, some whim of hers, and yet, perhaps, with a purpose behind it. Suzanne is no light-of-mind to jest just for jesting's sake. Perhaps she thought you would be more at ease at Morsigny. Nor was it an untruth. She is Suzanne D'Orfeuil de Narbonne, Monseigneur's cousin. Because of your ignorance of our tongue she had only Gaston and me to reckon with. To Gaston she was always Suzanne, and I humoured her, as why should I not? She can always make me do as she wills."

"But now?" said I blankly, and feeling as if again the bottom of my world were dropping out.

"The time for such toys is past," answered Brother Paul gravely. "It does not become my office to countenance the prolonging of a jest in the face of such issues as lie before us."

I made no reply; and he, perhaps in contemplation of these same issues, he too fell silent.

Mademoiselle D'Orfeuil de Narbonne! What a fool I had been in my condescension. How she must have laughed as she played her part from day to day; laughed at my simplicity in swallowing her mock humility, laughed at my clownish setting her at her ease, she who miscalled herself, lest Gaspard Hellewyl, the broken-fortuned country lout of Flanders, should be overawed by her greatness! Who is there has not been wise after the event when he might have been wise before? And who is there has not cursed the puppy-blindness in him that could not see what was plain before his face? Not a day had passed but the gilding of the Narbonne had shone through the homespun of the Orfeuil, and yet the glint taught me nothing.

But it might have been worse. I might have spoken more boldly, more openly, and so have given myself more frankly to her laughter. I owed her some thanks that I had not, for even my bitter heart set this to her credit, that she had never beckoned me to a fall. Her jest had not been that cruellest of jests that spoils a life for a pastime. Yes, it might have been worse, though that is cold comfort when might have been worse is elbow-neighbour to as bad as can be, and there was a kind of grim satisfaction in the knowledge that Louis would soon give me other things to think of.

Never, by day or night, was Morsigny left unsentinelled, and Mademoiselle, being warned of our coming, met us at the gate.

"Welcome home, mon coeur!" she said, having dropped, and for the last time, her little curtsey. "Hast thou had a good day? How red thy cheeks are! Monsieur Gaspard must have—oh! Monsieur, Monsieur, is the news bad? Is there to be no peace for Navarre that you are so grave? What has happened, Monsieur? Tell me, tell me!"

"Much, Mademoiselle de Narbonne, but not what you think."

"Thank God for that! And Narbonne! Ah," and frank laughter chased away the sudden seriousness. "But you are not angry at my poor little pretence? You should not be, for it was you who taught it to me. Remember how I took you for Martin."

"Mademoiselle, if I have deceived myself, I have deceived you also."

"What?" and she looked me imperiously in the eyes, "are you, after all, Martin the servant, and is the other the Gaspard Hellewyl Monsieur de Commines called friend? If that is your meaning——"

"No, no; worse than that, much worse. I am, most unhappily, that Gaspard Hellewyl, and so it is much worse than that."

As may be supposed, the grooms had led away the horses, and we four were alone, the little Count being clasped in her arms. Before she could reply, Brother Paulus intervened.

"Run to thy Marie, Gaston, mon gars; she will give thee thy bread and milk for to-night."

"Yes," said Mademoiselle, kissing him, and letting him slip to the ground. "Run away, p'tit, I shall come to thee presently."

"I think you are angry with my Monsieur Gaspard," said he; "but you must not be angry, Suzanne; he took such care of me all day. From the time you gave him the rose he has in his bonnet until now he has never let me out of reach of his arm. Kiss me, Monsieur Gaspard," and, forgetting he was a prince, with a rush he hugged me round the knees.

As I stooped over him, I thought a touch of colour rose to Mademoiselle's face, and I know it was a relief to hide my own; it is not easy at all times to keep the heart from showing through the eyes.

"Sleep sound, p'tit ami," said I, kissing him on the forehead.

When, with a bend of the knee to Brother Paul, he had gone, Mademoiselle turned to the priest.

"It is serious, then?"

"It might have been," he answered. "With anyone else than Monsieur de Helville it might have been serious beyond words, but he has saved us."

"Saved you?" I echoed. "Do you call that saving? Mademoiselle de Narbonne, I have a story to tell, and afterwards, if you will give me a night to rest the horses, Martin and I will go."

"Go? Go where?" she asked blankly.

"Whence we came."

"Yes," said Brother Paul, "to God's keeping."

"So I think," said I significantly, "to God's keeping."

Without a further question Mademoiselle led the way to the main door of Morsigny, through the great hall, and into a broad, timber-roofed chamber. It was the Justice Hall of the Count of Narbonne, and, facing the east, was already gloomy, though the sun still shone yellow on the grass.

Seating herself on the carved chair that faced the top of the table, Mademoiselle pointed to a bench beyond its angle and looked round her. From the almost black walls of dull oak glimmered in steel the wordless history of her race. Lance and sword, shield and casque, glaive and morion, told their story in dint and notch how the House of Narbonne had risen, fighting; had thriven, fighting; and fighting, held its own. Many a Gaston, many a Phoebus, many an Antony, had gone to its building, laying himself down as a foundation stone on which the fortunes of his race might rise. And never had it risen higher than at that day. No wonder Paulus had smiled at little Gaston's promise that I should marry his Suzanne. A D'Orfeuil of Narbonne, comparatively remote though she was from the direct line, was not for a homeless Hellewyl, and I, like the blind fool for which I still cursed myself, had inverted the pyramid of his thought.

Was it for that, I wondered, was it to point this difference between our fortunes that she had brought us to this room of all rooms in Morsigny? Or, more significant still, was it to say, It is here that Narbonne judges and condemns?

Mademoiselle must have understood something of what was passing in my mind, for her first words brushed aside the alternative.

"Here we can be undisturbed," she said to Paul; "and here, you know, we take counsel together. Monsieur Hellewyl, you said you had a story to tell; but before you begin, I wish to say this: I do not retract a single word spoken on the Grey Leap."

"That was your ignorance, Mademoiselle," said I; "wait, and hear me out."

"I am not afraid," she answered, "and—will you believe me?—though I am a woman, I am not curious. Tell me no more than you wish to tell."

"And that is everything."

Already she knew the story in part—how that a landless, penniless gentleman had been driven from his home like a smoked rat, how he had found a friend in Philip de Commines, and how he had come to Navarre on secret service. But I went back to the beginning and told it all over afresh, hoping vaguely that my forlorn helplessness might plead an extenuation for me.

............