"Castle Nowhere!" gasped Beau Nash, falling back upon the burly prop of
Mr. Bantison's shoulder.

"The Duke of Orleans will receive a message from me within the hour!"
said Winterset, as he made his way to the door. His face was black with
rage and shame.

"I tol' you that I would not soil my hand with you," answered the young
man. "If you send a message no gentleman will bring it. Whoever shall
bear it will receive a little beating from Francois."

He stepped to Lady Mary's side. Her head was bent low, her face averted.
She seemed to breathe with difficulty, and leaned heavily upon a chair.
"Monseigneur," she faltered in a half whisper, "can you--forgive me? It
is a bitter--mistake-I have made. Forgive."

"Forgive?" he answered, and his voice was as broken as hers; but he went
on, more firmly: "It is--nothing--less than nothing. There is--only jus'
one--in the--whole worl' who would not have treat' me the way that you
treat' me. It is to her that I am goin' to make reparation. You know
something, Henri? I am not goin' back only because the king forgive'
me. I am goin' to please him; I am goin' to espouse mademoiselle, our
cousin. My frien's, I ask your felicitations."

"And the king does not compel him!" exclaimed young Henri.

"Henri, you want to fight me?" cried his brother sharply. "Don' you
think the King of France is a wiser man than me?"

He offered his hand to Lady Mary. "Mademoiselle is fatigue'. Will she