that I should not have seen you.'

'The King's face!' I cried, snatching at the straw he seemed to
hold out.

He laughed cynically, smoothly. His thin face, his dark
moustache, and whitening hair, gave him an air of indescribable
keenness.

'I am not the King,' he said. 'Besides, I am told that you have
killed as many as six men in duels. You owe the King, therefore,
one life at least. You must pay it. There is no more to be
said, M. de Berault,' he continued coldly, turning away and
beginning to collect some papers. 'The law must take its
course.'

I thought that he was about to nod to the lieutenant to withdraw
me, and a chilling sweat broke out down my back. I saw the
scaffold, I felt the cords. A moment, and it would be too late!

'I have a favour to ask,' I stammered desperately, 'if your
Eminence will give me a moment alone.'

'To what end?' he answered, turning and eyeing me with cold
disfavour. 'I know you--your past--all. It can do no good, my
friend.'

'No harm!' I cried. 'And I am a dying man, Monseigneur!'

'That is true,' he said thoughtfully. Still he seemed to