I was waked by a light in my face, and, all a-quiver, sprang up to meet my doom. But it was not the duke or any of his hirelings who bent over me, candle in hand; it was Mlle. de Montluc. "Oh, my boy, my poor boy!" she cried pitifully, "I could not save you the flogging; on my honour, I could not. It would have availed you nothing had I pleaded for you on my bended knees." With bewilderment I observed that the tears were brimming over her lashes and splashing down into the candle-flame. I stared, too confused for speech, while she, putting down the shaking candlestick on the altar, as she crossed herself, covered her face with her hands, sobbing. "Mademoiselle," I stammered, "it is not worth mademoiselle's tears! The man, Pierre, he told me to scream, so they would think he was half flaying me. But in truth he did not strike very hard. He did not hurt so much." She struggled to check the rising tempest of her tears, and presently dropped her hands and looked at me earnestly from out her shining wet eyes. "Is that true? Are you not flayed?" And to make sure, she laid her hand delicately on my back. "They have whacked your coat to ribbons, but, thank St. Généviève, they have not brought the blood. I saw a man flogged once--" she shut her eyes, shuddering, and her mouth quivered anew. "But I am not much hurt, mademoiselle," I answered her. She took out her film of a handkerchief to wipe her wet cheeks, her hand still trembling. I could think of nothing but to repeat: "I am not in the least hurt, mademoiselle." "Ah, but if they have spared you the flogging to take your life!" she breathed. It was not a heartening suggestion. To my astonishment, suddenly I found myself, frightened victim, striving to comfort this noblewoman for my death. "Nay, I am not afraid. Since mademoiselle weeps over me, I can die happily." She sprang toward me as if to protect me with her body from some menacing thrust. "They shall not kill you!" she cried, her eyes flashing blue fire. "They shall not! Mon dieu! is Lorance de Montluc so feeble a thing that she cannot save a serving-boy?" She fell back a pace, pressing her hands to her temples as if to stifle their throbbing. "It was my fault," she cried--"it was all my fault. It was my vanity and silliness brought you to this. I should never have written that letter--a three years' child would have known better. But I had not seen M. de Mar for five weeks--I did not know, what I readily guess now, that he had taken sides against us. M. de Lorraine played on my pique." "Mademoiselle," I said, "the worst has not followed, since M. Étienne did not come himself." "You are glad for that?" "Why, of course, mademoiselle. Was it not a trap for him?" She caught her breath as if in pain.