little satisfaction to be of some service to one whom by repute
I have already learned to esteem."

I lay back on my pillows, and I groaned. Here was a predicament!
Mistaking me for that miserable rebel I had succoured at Mirepoix,
and whose letters I bore upon me that I might restore them to some
one whose name he had failed to give me at the last moment, the
Vicomte de Lavedan had poured the damning story of his treason into
my ears.

What if I were now to enlighten him? What if I were to tell him
that I was not Lesperon - no rebel at all, in fact - but Marcel de
Bardelys, the King's favourite? That he would account me a spy I
hardly thought; but assuredly he would see that my life must be a
danger to his own; he must fear betrayal from me; and to protect
himself he would be justified in taking extreme measures. Rebels
were not addicted to an excess of niceness in their methods, and it
was more likely that I should rise no more from the luxurious bed
on which his hospitality had laid me. But even if I had exaggerated
matters, and the Vicomte were not quite so bloodthirsty as was usual
with his order, even if he chose to accept my promise that I would
forget what he had said, he must nevertheless - in view of his
indiscretion - demand my instant withdrawal from Lavedan. And what,
then, of my wager with Chatellerault?

Then, in thinking of my wager, I came to think of Roxalanne herself
--that dainty, sweet-faced child into whose chamber I had penetrated
on the previous night. And would you believe it that I - the
satiated, cynical, unbelieving Bardelys - experienced dismay at the
very thought of leaving Lavedan for no other reason than because it