"No, sire," I said. "My man has cut his hand a little, but it is nothing." "Can he play?" Henry asked with his accustomed good-nature. "Oh, yes, sire," I answered. "I have bound it up with a strip of plaister from the case in your Majesty's closet." "He has not lost blood?" "No, sire." And he had not. But it was small wonder that the King asked; small wonder, for the man's face had changed in the last ten seconds to a strange leaden colour; a terror like that of a wild beast that sees itself trapped had leapt into his eyes. He shot a furtive glance round him, and I saw him slide his hand behind him. But I was prepared for that, and as the King moved off a space I slipped to the man's side, as if to give him some directions about his game. "Listen," I said, in a voice heard only by him; "take the dressing off your hand, and I have you broken on the wheel. You understand? Now play." Assuring myself that he did understand, and that Maignan and La Trape were at hand if he should attempt anything, I went back to my place, and sitting down by De Vic began to watch that strange game; while Mademoiselle's laughter and Madame de Lude's gibes floated across the court, and mingled with the eager applause and more dexterous criticisms of the courtiers. The light was beginning to sink, and for this reason, perhaps, no one perceived the Spaniard's pallor; but De Vic, after a rally or two, remarked that he was not playing his full strength. "Wise man!" he added. "Yes," I said. "Who plays well against kings plays ill." De Vic laughed. "How he sweats!" he said, "and he never turned a hair when he played Colet. I suppose he is nervous." "Probably," I said. And so they chattered and laughed--chattered and laughed, seeing an ordinary game between the King and a marker; while I, for whom the court had grown sombre as a dungeon, saw a villain struggling in his own toils, livid with the fear of death, and tortured by horrible apprehensions. Use and habit were still so powerful with the man that he played on mechanically with his hands, but his eyes every now and then sought mine with the look of the trapped beast; and on these occasions I could see his lips move in prayer or cursing. The sweat poured down his face as he moved to and fro, and I, fancied that his features were beginning to twitch. Presently--I have said that the light was failing, so that it was not in my imagination only that the court was sombre--the King held his ball. "My friend, your man is not well," he said, turning to me. "It is nothing, sire; the honour you do him makes him nervous," I answered. "Play up, sirrah," I continued; "you make too good a courtier."