"Which will be well," he smiled. "Her mother had beautiful eyes--
wonderful eyes."

"More wonderful than you knew," muttered the old woman. "Had you come a
day sooner--"

Still he smiled.

"But I didn't," he replied; and then nodding toward the whimpering thing
that the woman held:

"You should guard it well. There is of the best blood of France in its
veins." His lips curled, whimsically. "'Tis strange, that, _n'es-ce
pas_? In that small piece of carrion which you hold there upon your
knees runs the blood of three kings." Again he laughed, musically. He
turned.

He had not seen her stoop. The long-bladed knife struck him in the arm,
piercing flesh and vein and sinew, sticking there. Slowly he plucked it
forth, and turned to her, still smiling.

"You are old, madame. Do not apologize; it was not your fault."

He took the knife delicately by the tip and with a little flip sent it
spinning through the air and over the edge of the cliff. And he was gone.

The woman, shrivelled, gray-haired, sinking back in her chair, sat
silent. The puling thing upon her knees whimpered. The dying woman upon
the rude bed of rope and rush moaned. And that was all.