"Nay," I said, "he never fought in Flanders. He travelled no further than Calais. He was there kidnapped at the harbour, and thence conveyed to Cadiz. ’Twas the work of private enemies, beyond doubt." "Will you tell us how you came by this amazing news, monsieur?" said the Count, in his thin cold voice. Whereupon I related the whole story with circumstance, from the time when I was beset that night as I returned to my lodging. The Count listened to me with a courteous interest, but a look of compassion stole upon his face. "It is incredible, monsieur," he said, when I ended my tale. "My poor nephew had no private enemies: none can know better than you how well beloved he was of all. Even in the height of our broils here he had no personal foes, and though he and I were for a time at variance, yet when the realm settled itself in peace and order we forgot our public differences, and Raoul and Armand became deeply attached the one to the other; is it not so, Armand?" "It is indeed," said the youth eagerly. "Raoul and I were as brothers, and his loss has been my greatest sorrow." I could not doubt he spoke truth: his eyes shone as he spoke. Nor could I wonder that his father was incredulous, for Raoul was indeed a man whom it were strange to hate. "I have a man without who rowed in the self-same galley with Raoul," I said. "With your leave I will send for him, monsieur, and you may verify my story from his own lips." The Count assented with the same smile of weary tolerance. Within a little Stubbs came to us, looking ill at ease, and twisting his bonnet between his hands as he stood waiting our pleasure. At my bidding he related the story as I have told it, and rolled back his sleeve to show the letters "R. de T." there branded. His French was uncouth and villainously inexact, yet not so base but that his meaning was clear. The Count questioned him searchingly, almost as an advocate seeks to shake the testimony of a witness; but the man held to his tale in its main parts, answering only "J’ne savons pas"—such was his barbarous form—when the matter in question was beyond his ken. Having dismissed the man, I asked the Count whether he were not now perfectly convinced of his nephew’s fate. He looked upon me with that same smile of pity, and gave me an answer that, I confess, enraged me.