“That he would denounce you in the Assembly to-morrow.” “Then he was to be my accuser, and you were to be ready with the evidence. Was that the understanding?” How quietly he spoke, scarcely above a whisper, yet there was something in the sound that thrilled her like the hiss of a snake. “This you cannot forgive,” she said. “Still I warned you.” “Forgive? Oh, yes! We must not be hard on each other, Louison.” He spoke quietly, but with an unnatural tone in his voice. Still, if she had seen his face, the look of a fiend was there. “The mischief can be arrested. Late as it is, I will go to him.” Louison started up, and was preparing to go out; but the intellect of this singular man was more rapid than her movement. Quick as lightning he had discovered in her act a means of confounding his enemies. “Let it alone,” he said, with animation. “Is it likely that he will dare assail me?” “I am sure of it,” answered Louison, hesitating to sit down. “Your promise to give up the evidence was positive?” “Yes,” faltered the woman, shrinking from his eager glances. “There, let the whole thing rest. Here comes my man with the dwarf.” The messenger came, bearing Zamara, like a child in his arms. The little wretch was ashen white as far as his dusky skin would permit, and his eyes gleamed like those of a viper when they fell on Louison. “Let the creature down,” said Mirabeau; “and come again when I call you.” The man placed Zamara on his feet, and disappeared. Before any one could speak, the dwarf came close to Mirabeau with one hand in his bosom. “Guard yourself! Guard yourself! He carries a poisoned dagger there,” cried Louison. Zamara gave her a quick glance—all his color had come back. In an instant his sharp wit mastered the situation. The hand was withdrawn from his bosom; it held a paper, which he placed before Mirabeau with low reverence, as if he had been a slave, and the count an Eastern satrap. “The woman who leans upon your chair tempted me to take this. When I found that she intended to make a bad use of it, I refused to give it up, being resolved to bring it back again. In the morning Count Mirabeau would have found it under this pretty deer with the golden hoofs. There was no need of sending a tall man after Zamara; he knows what is right, and is not afraid when it is to be done.” Mirabeau took the letter, glanced over it, then leaned forward and held it in the flame of an antique lamp that burned before him. As the blaze flashed up from his hand, it revealed the lines of that lowering face with a vividness that made the dwarf tremble; but as the light faded, this expression softened into carelessness, and brushing the black flakes from his sleeves, he said, addressing Zamara, “You can go now. I shall not kill you for this; but try it a second time, and there will be one sharp, little dwarf less in France. Go!”