"You drove me out of England," he said, or rather whined; "now you would drive me out of France"; and he folded his hands across his breast as he spoke, and stood shaking before the other. "Your own cowardice, your own wickedness, drove you out," replied Douglas. "Nought else. And, Lord Fordingbridge, because I would not have you regard us upon the same bad level as yourself, let me tell you this: None of us are spies, denouncers, informers. None. We do not shift from white to black cockade to save our necks nor to gratify a base hatred. You were not denounced by us to the English Government even after your execrable lies at Lady Belrose's; we but frightened you into silence till we had time to quit England ourselves. You have been terrified by a bugbear--by your own evil nature." Alas! poor Douglas. He was no match for this crafty, frenzied villain. He told more than he should. He showed Fordingbridge that England was still open to him; he presented him with the knowledge that, besides himself, there was no one knew of his presence in France. In a moment the wretch had grasped this fact; in another he had resolved on what he would do. His glittering eye still upon Douglas, who stood there calmly contemptuous, his left hand idly resting on his sword hilt, and his right in the lace of his ruffles, he asked: "Is this true?" For answer Douglas shrugged his shoulders and replied, "All men are not born liars." Alas! poor Douglas. Unready as he was, he had no time to save himself. With a harsh, raucous cry the other sprang at him; the knife, which he had held hidden in his sleeve so long, gleamed in the moonlight; a moment later and it was buried in Douglas's bosom. "So," said the assassin, "in this way I am free of France too." As he struck the unhappy man the latter reeled back three paces and then fell prone in the full blaze of the moonlight, while the murderer, with a hurried glance round, prepared to skulk away in the deep shadow thrown by the cathedral walls on a side street. Yet, as though the horror of the deed he had done were not enough for him to carry away, he knew that it had been observed. As he turned to fly, he saw looking at him from a window in a darkened room the white face of a woman distorted with terror; a face from which the eyes seemed starting. And, as he crept by the buttress in the shadow, he also saw her raise her finger and point as though denouncing him. CHAPTER XVII. GASCONISM. The summer waned, the autumn came, and poor, gentle Douglas lay in his grave, but still his murderer had never been discovered. Yet in connection with that murderer, or rather in connection with the murder itself, some extraordinary facts had been forthcoming which, after all, but served to surround it more and more with mystery. These you shall hear.