Assuring myself that he did understand, and that Maignan and La
Trape were at hand if he should attempt anything, I went back to
my place, and sitting down by De Vic began to watch that strange
game; while Mademoiselle's laughter and Madame de Lude's gibes
floated across the court, and mingled with the eager applause and
more dexterous criticisms of the courtiers. The light was
beginning to sink, and for this reason, perhaps, no one perceived
the Spaniard's pallor; but De Vic, after a rally or two, remarked
that he was not playing his full strength.

"Wise man!" he added.

"Yes," I said. "Who plays well against kings plays ill."

De Vic laughed. "How he sweats!" he said, "and he never turned
a hair when he played Colet. I suppose he is nervous."

"Probably," I said.

And so they chattered and laughed--chattered and laughed, seeing
an ordinary game between the King and a marker; while I, for whom
the court had grown sombre as a dungeon, saw a villain struggling
in his own toils, livid with the fear of death, and tortured by
horrible apprehensions. Use and habit were still so powerful
with the man that he played on mechanically with his hands, but
his eyes every now and then sought mine with the look of the
trapped beast; and on these occasions I could see his lips move
in prayer or cursing. The sweat poured down his face as he moved
to and fro, and I, fancied that his features were beginning to