“Good God!” cries the monk, clasping his hands, “if I do not see him to-night, I shall never see him.” “And why not, I pray?” asks the Comte d’Auvergne. “Come and sup with my people to-night; and to-morrow, as early as you please, I will take you to his Majesty. Follow me.” “I wash my hands of all the evil this delay will cause,” exclaims the monk, following him reluctantly. “On your head be it, monseigneur.” They quitted the hall together. All this time Osman had stood near watching them. He had not lost a syllable of the conversation. “Did I not say that there was blood?” he mutters half aloud; “is it not true? The knowledge of it came to me in a vision. Now I have read it also in the stars. The blood of the King is on that monk. His robes are spotted with it. In his hand, while he spoke, there was a dagger. None else beheld it; but I saw it, and the point streamed with the King’s life-blood. Woe! woe! woe! Would that I could [Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE BLOIS.] speak! Would that they would listen! Before many hours, death will be within these walls. Alas! it is given to me to avert it if they would but hear me.” The astrologer slowly follows the steps of the Comte d’Auvergne and the Dominican, descending the stairs after them. They enter a suite of rooms on the ground floor of the palace. The monk had now thrown back his cowl and displayed a face yet young, but seamed and wrinkled with deep lines. His eyes are dull and bloodshot; his thin hair scarcely shades his projecting forehead. He stands in the centre of the apartment, silent, sullen, and preoccupied. “What is your name?” asks the Count sternly, turning towards him. “Jacques Clément,” is the short rejoinder. “You say you are the bearer of letters to the King?” “Yes,” replies he, “from Monsieur de Brienne and the President Harlay, now both prisoners in the Bastille. There is my passport; you see it is signed by Monsieur de Brienne.” “Show me the President’s letter,” says D’Auvergne; “his writing is as familiar to me as my own. If you are a spy, you will meet with no mercy here,” and he measured him from head to foot with eyes full of doubt and suspicion. The monk draws forth a parcel of unsealed letters, which the Count reads and examines. “It is well,” he says. “These are proofs that you are a messenger from the King’s friends. But how did you, carrying such dangerous credentials, contrive to pass the gates of Paris? Answer me that, my father.” “My habit protected me,” replies the monk, devoutly crossing himself, “our Blessed Lady gave me courage and address to escape from those Philistines. Once past the gates, I came here in company with Monsieur de la Guesle’s people.” “You say, then, that you will answer with your head that two gates of Paris will open to the King if he advances?”