“If what you propose to do be right, what need is there for silence; if it be wrong, why should my lips be sealed?” he answered. “Secrets confided to the ears of you holy men are to be regarded as sacred.” “This is no such occasion. You sought my opinion and I gave it. That is all. My duty is my duty, none the less or more.” “Peace with your canting about duty. You are in Morvaix now, and I will settle what is your duty. I rule here, absolutely.” “I am not disputing your rule, my lord; but I was not sent here to do your bidding or to cease to do what I deem my duty.” “Out of my sight. It is such canting hypocrites as you who sow discord and do mischief. See to it that you hold your babbling tongue, or I’ll find means to silence you.” But Dubois fired at this injustice and answered hotly-- “I am no canting hypocrite, my lord, nor am I a recreant coward to flinch and cringe before your angry looks and passionate words. They do but convince me that in this thing you have some evil purpose; and not in Morvaix, no, nor in all France, is there power to silence me if I think I ought to speak.” “Out of my presence before I send for my guards to drive you away for a pestilent ribald malcontent.” “I came of your seeking, not of my own wish,” returned Dubois, not one whit abashed by the Governor’s violence. “If I have cause to send for you again you will repent it.” “I am in no ways persuaded of that,” returned Dubois, sturdily; and he swung out of the room, little thinking that he had done harm to Gerard by his manful attitude. Yet in a way he had; for the Governor, revolving what had passed, determined not to take the risk of applying to the Cardinal, but to hurry on his marriage, and leave the Church to interfere when it would have the accomplished fact to face. Had Dubois but known, he would have been more prudent to have appeared to consent to the Governor’s plans and to have held out to him the hope of the Cardinal’s consent, so that he might have been induced to incur the delay necessary to obtain it. He saw this when Gerard pointed it out to him later. But it was too late then. In the meantime the Duchess had received Gabrielle with even greater tenderness and love than usual; and it was some time before she began to work round slowly to the subject of the Duke’s wishes. “I am old, feeble, and bed-ridden, Gabrielle, and worse than all, childless. I am done with the world, dear, and willing to give place to one who can play my part better. It would have been better, far better, had I died years ago.” “Then I should have lacked the truest woman friend a girl could have,” answered Gabrielle sweetly. “But you must not yield to this melancholy. You have been in greater pain than usual, I fear, and it has tried you.” “Not of body, child, but of mind, perhaps,” and she sighed. “It is ill to lag on and on, a weary dreary nuisance to all around you. There comes a time when it is good to die.”