face.

"You defy me, Bardelys?" he asked, in a voice of anger.

"God forbid, Sire!" I answered quickly. "I do but pursue my
destiny."

He took a turn in silence, like a man who is mastering himself
before he will speak. Many an eye, I knew, was upon us, and not
a few may have been marvelling whether already Bardelys were about
to share the fate that yesterday had overtaken his rival
Chatellerault. At last he halted at my side again.

"Marcel," said he, but though he used that name his voice was harsh,
"go home and ponder what I have said. If you value my favour, if
you desire my love, you will abandon this journey and the suit you
contemplate. If, on the other hand, you persist in going - you
need not return. The Court of France has no room for gentlemen who
are but lip-servers, no place for courtiers who disobey their King."

That was his last word. He waited for no reply, but swung round
on his heel, and an instant later I beheld him deep in conversation
with the Duke of Saint-Simon. Of such a quality is the love of
princes - vain, capricious, and wilful. Indulge it ever and at any
cost, else you forfeit it.

I turned away with a sigh, for in spite of all his weaknesses and
meannesses I loved this cardinal-ridden king, and would have died
for him had the need occurred, as well he knew. But in this matter
--well, I accounted my honour involved, and there was now no