Louison had lured the dwarf to her own lodgings. That moment he was attempting to force himself from under the powerful hand which she pressed upon his shoulder. “Tell me, little wretch, or I will inform your mistress that you spy upon her!” “No, no! I pray you.” “Spy upon her, and for what?” “Nothing. Oh, madame! it is for nothing. Zamara has all his life had the habit of listening. He loves to know everything; that is all. He never betrays.” “Unless it is for his interest,” said the woman, laughing maliciously, as her threatening eyes read the little, aged face that had grown dark and wrinkled, like a withered prune, during the progress of his servile life. “Of course, in these times, secrets are commodities that sell for good prices. You have many to sell, and I wish to buy. Is there anything that Zamara loves better than gold?” “No, no!” cried the little Indian, and his eyes struck fire. “Nothing but madame, my mistress.” “Do you love her better than this head?” exclaimed the woman, burying her hand in the crisp hair, which was now more than half white, and shaking the head her words threatened till the creature’s teeth chattered. “Answer me that, jackanapes.” The dwarf threw up both his long, thin hands, and held on to his head, seized with sudden terror. “My head—my own head? No, no! There is nothing on earth that Zamara loves better than that. Take your hands away, you hurt me!” “Well, there, you are free. I don’t mean to hurt you; but understand this, if you wish to keep this worthless head upon your miserable little shoulders, you will forget that any mistress exists to you in the world, except Louison Brisot.” “And who is Louison Brisot?” “Look in my face.” “There, I do,” faltered the dwarf, lifting his heavy eyes to the bold, handsome face bending down to his level. “Then do not forget it, for I am your mistress. It is for me that you must watch, and spy, and listen.” “But why for you?” “Because I can have your head cut off if you don’t—cut off and stuck upon a pike. Have you never seen such things?” “Yes,” gasped the dwarf, and his dark face turned livid. “I saw them carried along the road from Versailles. It was terrible.” “You saw women carrying them?” “Yes; I saw it.” The poor dwarf shuddered, and wrenched himself from the hand that seemed to burn his shoulder. “Those men were strong, powerful, full of life; but they offended the women of France. While their huge trunks lay in Versailles, you saw their heads dancing over that army of women. Look at me. It was I who lifted this hand, and in the twinkling of an eye those great, shaggy heads fell.” “Oh, _mon Dieu_! let me go. Let me go!” cried the poor wretch. “No; there is no such thing as letting go. You must obey me, or——” Here the woman drew her finger across her throat with the slightest possible action, and uttered a short laugh as the dwarf winced in cowardly fear. “What is it that you want of me, madame?” he gasped.