He did not listen to her, but, placing the little bag on Lucilio's table, hastily ripped it open with the dagger. He took from it the ring, which he placed on his thumb, and Abbé Anjorrant's letter to Monsieur Sully, of which he burst the seal and silk thread, to Mercedes's dire consternation. [Illustration: _MARIO ESTABLISHES HIS IDENTITY._ _He darted into the hall, ran back to the marquis's chamber, snatched unceremoniously from his hands the letter over which he was still meditating, compared the handwritings_,...] That done, he opened the letter, took out a stained and spotted paper, kissed it and examined it carefully; then, shouting: "Come, mother! Come, Monsieur Jovelin!" he darted into the hall, ran back to the marquis's chamber, snatched unceremoniously from his hands the letter over which he was still meditating, compared the handwritings, and, thrusting everything that he held, letters, ring and dagger, into Adamas's hand, leaped on the marquis's knees, threw his arms about his neck, and hugged him so tight that the worthy man was almost suffocated for a moment. "Come, come!" said Bois-Doré at last, somewhat annoyed by this familiarity, which he did not expect, and which had seriously deranged his wig, "this is not the time for play of this sort, my young friend, and you are taking liberties which--Whom is this you have brought here and why?" The marquis paused when he saw Mario burst into tears. The child had acted in obedience to an inspiration, he had had faith; but, as the minds of the others did not move so fast or so straight as his, doubt, fear and shame returned to him. He had disobeyed Mercedes, who was weeping and trembling. Lucilio watched him so closely that he felt intimidated; the marquis repelled his passionate embrace, and Adamas was dazed, and did not seem to recognize unhesitatingly the similarity of the handwritings. "Come, do not weep, my child," said the perturbed marquis, taking from Adamas's hands his brother's letter and the worn and crumpled paper that Mario had brought. "What is the matter, Adamas, and why are you trembling so? What is that paper, all covered with black spots? _Vrai Dieu_! those are blood-stains! Bring the candle nearer, Adamas, and let me look! Why, my friends! O Lord God in Heaven! Jovelin! Adamas! Look at this! I am not dreaming, am I? It is the handwriting of my darling brother! every letter is his! And this blood----Ah! my friends! that is a very cruel thing to see. But--where did you get this, Mario?" "Read, read, monsieur," cried Adamas, "make sure that you are right." "I cannot," said the marquis, turning deathly pale; "my heart fails me! Whence comes this paper?" "It was found on my father," said Mario, recovering his courage; "look, see if it is not a letter for you that he intended to send you. Monsieur Anjorrant made me read it many times; but your name was not on it, and we never knew to whom to send it."