Without more ado, Grandjon-Larisse laid a map on the table. "This will
help us," he said briefly, then added: "Look you, Prince, when war began
the game was all with you. At Thouars here"--his words followed his
finger--"at Fontenay, at Saumur, at Torfou, at Coron, at Chateau-
Gonthier, at Pontorson, at Dol, at Antrain, you had us by the heels.
Victory was ours once to your thrice. Your blood was up. You had great
men--great men," he repeated politely.

Detricand bowed. "But see how all is changed," continued the other.
"See: by this forest of Vesins de la Rochejaquelein fell. At Chollet"--
his finger touched another point--"Bonchamp died, and here d'Elbee and
Lescure were mortally wounded. At Angers Stofflet was sent to his
account, and Charette paid the price at Nantes." He held up his fingers.
"One--two--three--four--five--six great men gone!"

He paused, took a step away from the table, and came back again.

Once more he dropped his finger on the map. "Tinteniac is gone, and at
Quiberon Peninsula your friend Sombreuil was slain. And look you here,"
he added in a lower voice, "at Laval my old friend the Prince of Talmont
was executed at his own chateau, where I had spent many an hour with
him."

Detricand's eyes flashed fire. "Why then permit the murder, monsieur le
general?"

Grandjon-Larisse started, his voice became hard at once. "It is not a
question of Talmont, or of you, or of me, monseigneur. It is not a
question of friendship, not even of father, or brother, or son--but of