favour?"

"Assuredly, my poor friend," I answered, going down on my knees
beside him.

"You - you were not for the Duke?" he inquired, eyeing me more
keenly.

"No, monsieur. But do not let that disturb you; I have no interest
in this rising and I have taken no side. I am from Paris, on a
journey of - of pleasure. My name is Bardelys - Marcel de Bardelys."

"Bardelys the Magnificent?" he questioned, and I could not repress
a smile.

"I am that overrated man."

"But then you are for the King!" And a note of disappointment crept
into his voice. Before I could make him any answer, he had resumed.
"No matter; Marcel de Bardelys is a gentleman, and party signifies
little when a man is dying. I am Rene de Lesperon, of Lesperon in
Gascony," he pursued. "Will you send word to my sister afterwards?"

I bowed my head without speaking.

"She is the only relative I have, monsieur. But" - and his tone grew
wistful - "there is one other to whom I would have you bear a
message." He raised his hand by a painful effort to the level of
his breast. Strength failed him, and he sank back. "I cannot,
monsieur," he said in a tone of pathetic apology. "See; there is