amount to? No bread, no wine, no thanks; a dog's life and a jackal's
death,--and all to hold some leagues of barren land for his
petticoat-ridden majesty at Versailles. Oh, why not say it? We can
tell the truth here without losing our heads."

"The king's arm"--I began.

"Is long," he interrupted. "Yet, in truth, your face is longer. Are
you so eager to be gone? Well, get you to the prisoner, and, my hand
on it, I shall ask for nothing more."




CHAPTER III

BEHIND THE COMMANDANT'S DOOR

The commandant's door had come to be the portal through which I stepped
from safety into meddling. Yet I opened it now with laughter peeping
from my sleeve. To bait the Englishman in Huron seemed a good-natured
enough jest, and full of possibilities.

But one look at the prisoner drained my laughter. He was lying on a
bench, his face hidden in his out-flung arms, and his slenderness and
helplessness pulled at me hard. I knew that despair, and even tears,
must have conquered now that he was alone, and I wished that I might
save his pride, and slip away until he had fought back his bravery, and
had himself in hand.