to visit his dying mother. "He is a spy," they would declare hotly; "let
him die a spy's death!"

"It is not my fault," I said to myself angrily; "he has lost; he must
pay forfeit!"

"A dying woman blesses you, and surely the saints will reward you!" The
room was filled with the words; they buzzed in my ears, and beat into my
brain continually; I could not rid myself of them. "A dying woman!" Ay,
perhaps a dead woman by now, and her son following swiftly as the night
the day! I could have cried aloud in my agony of mind.




CHAPTER VII

A Commission for the Admiral


"It is over, monsieur."

Renaud L'Estang stood before me, his face drawn and haggard, and heavy
with a great grief. He had stolen in noiselessly; his sword and pistol
lay within reach of his hand; he might have killed me without effort,
and saved his own life. The thought flashed into my mind, but died away
instantly. From the moment when he told his story I had never once
mistrusted him.

"Your mother has passed away?" I questioned in a tone of sympathy.