“Is that a dream?” she cried, and kissed him full upon the lips. Then she fell back with a little, frightened cry. “What is it?” she asked. “What has happened? Your face!” He looked at her with terrible eyes, and then at me. “A wound,” he answered hoarsely. “But ’tis healing now.” Yes, it was healing. I could see the drawn, puckered, white edges. A bandage hid the rest--but I could guess what it was like--what it would be always like! And I had been the cause of it! I think he read my thought, for he held out his hand to me. “M. de Marsan,” he said quite gently, “you have proved it was not you who were the traitor, but d’Aurilly. I have yet to deal with him.” “I have already dealt with him, M. le Comte,” and I smiled into his eyes, with a great lightening of the heart that he had forgiven me. “Dealt with him?” “With these hands,” I answered. “It was he who planned the whole affair. Roquefort had arranged for him to marry Mademoiselle. The wedding was to take place to-morrow.” I could see Fronsac’s face turn purple. “The hound!” he said between his teeth. “The hound!” “I knew that he was dead,” said Mademoiselle. “Roquefort told me. But I did not know, Monsieur, that it was to you I was indebted for this deliverance. It is a great debt we owe you.” “It was nothing,” I protested. “It was a joy to my heart to pull him down.” “Tell us,” said M. le Comte simply. So, as briefly as might be, I told them the story of what had happened in the torture-chamber. At the end M. le Comte held out his hand to me again. “You are a man, M. de Marsan,” he said warmly. “I count myself fortunate to have found a liege so gallant. I shall remember it.” “But he has not told you all, M. le Comte!” cried Fronsac. “It was he who planned the escape--I was but a follower, a looker-on. I had despaired a dozen times, but he always found a way. It was magnificent!” “No, no,” I protested again, and stopped. M. le Comte was looking at me and laughing. “M. de Marsan,” he said, “I will spare your blushes. Only permit me to say that I shall not soon forget the man who hath returned me my daughter, whom I had despaired of rescuing--who hath delivered mine enemy into my hands.” “But, indeed, M. le Comte,” I said earnestly, “it was not I conceived the plan. I could have done nothing of myself,” and I told him the story of the message. “This friend of yours in Roquefort’s household is no ordinary man,” I added. “No, he is no ordinary man,” assented M. le Comte. “It is not often one secures an agent at once so fearless and so full of resource. ’Tis a strange story, but not mine to tell,” and he fell a moment silent. “Still,” he continued warmly, “you will at least permit me to give you credit with the execution. I have myself found many times that it is easy to lay a plan. But often I have not succeeded so well in carrying it out.” He turned to where Roquefort lay on the couch. I fancied that I could already discern the death-damp on his brow.