How the hours of that day passed I cannot tell. They crawled, that was when I sat listening for the footfall of the King's messenger who never came; they flew, that was when I thought of Poictiers' market-place, and what the dawn brought with it. But whether they crept or flew, I was like one groping a way through a maze and forever being turned back.

Twice I tried the stables, but the gear, both bit and saddle, had been hidden away; twice, too, I tried the gates, but was denied passage; none might cross Plessis threshold, even outwards, without the King's permission. Time after time I importuned the guards who kept the outer door of the royal wing—I wept, I pled, I stormed. By turns I was many things, Mademoiselle de Narbonne, Monsieur de Commines' friend and guest, a broken-hearted, despairing woman; but tears, prayers, and threats were alike useless.

So Saturday passed, and the sun went down on the last day of the week.

Through all these desperate hours of failure Blaise and his friend Davidd Lesellè went wheresoever I went, and though powerless to help, their dumb sympathy was a comfort. Now, in this growing dusk, they sat with me in silence. I had ceased to weep. To me Gaspard was already dead and I had no more tears. Crouched forward, I watched the western glow fade through amber and palest green to the soft beginnings of the night. Had the sun set in crimson or in cloud, I think I must have shrieked at the omen, so tense and quivering was every nerve. But all was peace, all was calm and tranquillity; and as the purple deepened, deepened, deepened till the stars shone out luminously clear, something of the quiet of nature fell upon my spirit. Then a door clapped noisily, and up the staircase came a rush of feet.

"It is Monseigneur," said Blaise, rousing himself.

On the threshold, Monsieur de Commines stood peering into the darkness of the room. To a sick heart night brings comfort as it brings counsel to doubt, and so the lamps sat unlit in their sources.

"Who is here, and where is Mademoiselle de Narbonne?" he cried.

I, and I, and I, we answered, while I added:

"Oh, Monseigneur, is there hope?"

"God knows!" he said curtly. "Lesellè, dear lad, fetch a light. Mademoiselle, can you ride boy-fashion?"

"Yes, yes; Monsieur de Commines, what has happened?"

"Blaise, you and she are about a size. Fetch her a riding suit, then saddle Bay Zadok and Mesrour; quick, boy, quick!"

"But, Monseigneur——"

"One moment, Mademoiselle, here is Lesellè. Thanks, lad. Listen now. You know the Poictiers road by Sainte Maure and Chatellerault?"

"Yes, Monseigneur."

"Even in the darkness?"

"Yes, Monseigneur."

"I have Sir John's leave to borrow you for to-night. It is a race for life, boy, and there must be no mistakes."

"I understand, Monseigneur. When do we start?"

"In ten minutes: Blaise is saddling the horses. You are to convoy Mademoiselle de Narbonne."

"Mademoiselle de Narbonne? To Poictiers, Monseigneur?"

"Yes, wait in the courtyard till she is ready. Have you supped?"

"No, Monseigneur."

"Then ride hungry, or eat as you go. Off with you now; ten minutes, remember."

But when, catching him by the arm, I would have importuned him, he motioned me to silence.

"One moment, Mademoiselle, one moment," he said testily, and as he spoke Blaise returned, a pile of sober grey stuff on his arm. This Monsieur de Commines snatched from him. "Now the horses, quickly, but with no noise," and at last the door was shut.

"Monseigneur, what does this mean?"

"It means, Mademoiselle, that the King is dead."

"Dead? Louis—the King—dead? That hypocrite, that tyrant—dead? God be thanked for His justice!"

"He was the greatest man in France," answered Monseigneur, with something like a sob in his throat. "He was the greatest King France ever knew. For eleven years he was my master and my friend—and he is dead."

"God be thanked!" I repeated, for my heart was very sore and very hard; how was it possible I could find pity for Louis of Valois? "If he was the greatest man in France, he was also the worst."

"What he was is for God's judgment, Mademoiselle, and it is my belief that Kings do not stand at the same bar as common men."

"But Gaspard? Monsieur de Commines, what of Gaspard?"

A shiver shook him as if he was chilly even in the August heat, but the lines of sorrow softened on his face.

"Take heart, Mademoiselle. Plea............