“That I could be a spy, a traitor?” and he laughed, with some of the old look back upon his face. “Let me tell you the story, Monsieur; perhaps you will no longer wonder. My father lived at Lembeye, and managed to save some money. He determined that I should have a career, and so sent me to Paris to become a student of medicine. That was ten years ago, and I came back to my home to find it desecrated. M. le Duc de Roquefort had ridden through the town at the head of his ruffians. As he passed our gate, he saw my sister standing there, a pretty girl of seventeen, fresh as the dawn, with brown eyes that were always laughing. Without checking his horse, he leaned down and swung her to the saddle before him.” He paused and passed his hand before his eyes, as though to blot out a vision. “It was done in an instant,” he went on at last. “My father could do nothing. He could only stand and watch her carried away, screaming, struggling, with those other devils looking on and laughing. It was then that I came home. I had been away for four years. No one knew me. I buried my old self and started to find my sister. I found her here at Marleon, Monsieur; you can guess in what condition! The child killed her,--she was happy to die,--and I buried them together. There was nothing left but my vengeance. I thought at first to kill him--but that was so poor a way! I gained entrance to his household, first as a man-at-arms, then as his physician. I won his confidence, only to betray it; he told me his plans and had them come to naught. Cadillac at first refused to trust me, but I told him my story, and I have served him well,--how well you will never guess, Monsieur, nor in how many ways I tortured this monster--but for me, he would have had Mademoiselle de Brissac long ago. And at the end I told him--he died looking at me.” He stopped. I could find nothing to say. I gazed at him, fascinated. “Now it is over,” he said. “Now there will be room in my life for other things than hate. I shall go back to Paris. I have waited here only to see you out of danger, M. de Marsan. You are out of danger now,” and he held out his hand. “Adieu.” I took his hand in mine and pressed it. I could find no blame for him in my heart. “Adieu, Monsieur,” I said, “and again thanks for your kindness.” “I mean to devote my life to it,” he said simply, “so much of my life as is left to me,” and he was gone almost before the words were spoken. I lay for long looking at the door, pondering on his story. What a vengeance! To play traitor to a man for long years--to seem his friend and yet to hate him--and then, at the end, to lay the treachery bare before him! I understood now, as M. le Comte had done, that look of terror in Roquefort’s eyes, and found it in my heart to pity him. CHAPTER XVIII LIGHT