her arms, and, having finished her light meal, began to sing a lullaby,
to which she very soon fell asleep herself.

"She is sleeping soundly," whispered the elder man, softly drawing
together the faded damask bed-curtains, and walking on tiptoe back to
the fireplace, where his companion had fanned the fire into a fresh
blaze.

"It is high time," was the low and rather impatient response. "We can't
stop here much longer. Do you know what has happened to the duke?"

"Yes, I know. He has been sentenced to death. To-morrow he will be
executed. What have you discovered?"

"A fox on the trail of a lion!" harshly replied the young man. "He who
aroused so many hopes is, after all, nothing more than an impostor--Leon
Maria Hervagault, the son of a tailor at St. Leu. The true dauphin, the
son of Louis XVI., really died a natural death, after he had served a
three years' apprenticeship as shoemaker under Master Simho; and in
order that a later generation might not be able to secure his ashes, he
was buried in quick-lime in the Chapel of St. Margarethe."

"They were not so scrupulous concerning monsieur,"[1] observed the old
man, restlessly pacing the floor. "I received a letter from my agent
to-day; he writes that monsieur was secretly shot at Dillingen."

[Footnote 1: Count de Provence, afterward Louis XVIII.]

"What! He, too? Then--"