At last he felt almost perfectly sure of his facts, not only because of the handwriting, but because of the expressions used in the letter and of the peculiar coincidences. "What!" he cried. And he ran from the room, his heart swelling with determination and joy, scarcely heeded by the marquis, who was absorbed by his reflections. Mario knew Master Jovelin's room, and he found his mother there, just about to withdraw without exhibiting the articles of which she was so jealous and distrustful a guardian. Lucilio had been as profoundly impressed as the marquis by the coincidence of the date fixed in the child's mind by Abbé Anjorrant with that mentioned by the little gypsy as the date of Florimond's death. He had not the slightest belief in magic; but, as he was also struck by La Flèche's mention of the name of Mario, he feared that the marquis was the dupe of some juggling scheme. He began to suspect the Moorish woman herself, and his first act, on returning to the château, was to send for her and question her in writing, with much conciseness and severity. He insisted that she should produce the ring and the letter from Monsieur Anjorrant of which she had spoken; and, although she felt profound respect and sympathy for him, as his persistence led her to fear the indirect intervention of D'Alvimar in this examination she was undergoing, she had taken refuge in agonized silence. As soon as Mario appeared, her wounded heart gave vent in the complaint which it dared not address directly to Lucilio. "Come, my poor child," she said, "we must go away from here, for we are accused of seeking to deceive and of having told a story that is not true. Come, let us go at once, so that they may know that we seek aid only from God and ourselves." But Mario held her back. "We have had enough of distrust," he said to her; "we must do what they ask, mother. Give me the letter and the ring! They are mine; I want them this moment!" Lucilio was impressed by the child's vehemence, and the Moor, utterly dumbfounded, said nothing for several moments. Never before had Mario spoken so to her; never had she detected in him the slightest tendency to independence; and now, in the most peremptory way, he ordered her to do his bidding. She was afraid; she thought that some miracle had happened; all her strength of will vanished before the idea that fate had intervened. She took from her belt the sheepskin bag in which she had sewn the precious objects. "That is not all, mother," said Mario; "I must have the knife too." "You will not dare to touch it, boy! it is the knife that killed----" "I know it; I have seen it before now. It is necessary that I should touch it, and I will touch it. Give it to me!" Mercedes handed him the knife, and said, clasping her hands: "If it is the evil spirit that guides my son's hand and tongue, we are lost, Mario!"