All save the King and his opponent turned to look. And then the sport
came to a sudden end. A sinewy hand appeared, interposed, released; for
an instant the dark, handsome face of Guise looked through the doorway.
It was gone as soon as seen; it was there a second only. But more than
one recognised it, and wondered. For was not the young Duke in evil
odour with the King by reason of the attack on the Admiral? And had he
not been chased from Paris only that morning and forbidden to return?

They were still wondering, still gazing, when abruptly--as he did all
things--Charles thrust back his chair.

"Foucauld, you owe me ten pieces!" he cried with glee, and he slapped the
table. "Pay, my friend; pay!"

"To-morrow, little master; to-morrow!" Rochefoucauld answered in the same
tone. And he rose to his feet.

"To-morrow!" Charles repeated. "To-morrow?" And on the word his jaw
fell. He looked wildly round. His face was ghastly.

"Well, sire, and why not?" Rochefoucauld answered in astonishment. And
in his turn he looked round, wondering; and a chill fell on him. "Why
not?" he repeated.

For a moment no one answered him: the silence in the Chamber was intense.
Where he looked, wherever he looked, he met solemn, wondering eyes, such
eyes as gaze on men in their coffins.

"What has come to you all?" he cried, with an effort. "What is the jest,
for faith, sire, I don't see it?"