"Tristan of the House of Nails," I answered, and laughed again. Through the laughter there came a knocking at the door. "See who is there." Screwing his neck as a man does who swallows his spittle to moisten a dry throat, Martin shot back the bolt, opening the door an inch or two, and peering through the crack as if behind whoever knocked he looked to find Tristan himself, with a dangle of ropes in his hand. "It is Mademoiselle Suzanne." Mademoiselle Suzanne! Already she had heard of the letter, already she knew that it came from Commines, and that knowledge forced a crisis. In these few seconds thought travelled fast. Should I trust her? Should I say: Here, in the yielding of the boy, is the peace of Navarre, here is France turned friend; Louis, Gaston's protector. Give him to me, and there is a final end to your fear. But swift on the heels of the question came the reply: That is to throw your responsibility on to her. She is accountable to Jean de Narbonne. Before she dared say yes, she must send to Pamplona. That meant negotiations, _pour-parlers_, and above all, publicity, and what publicity stood for; a warning to the adverse party in Navarre, a threat to Spain, even a confession of France's weakness. And would Louis wait? Unconsciously I tightened the noose upon my finger, and in the pain of the pinch found an answer--Louis would neither wait nor forgive. What then? Our only safety, the boy's, my own, Mademoiselle's even, lay in instant action, and crumpling the letter out of sight, I motioned to Martin to fling open the door. As the light broke upon her, Mademoiselle shrunk still further from it across the passage. "Monsieur, they said--Oh! I know I promised, and indeed, I trust you--but they said there was a letter, and that Monsieur de Commines had written. Have you--that is, is it good news, Monsieur?" "Have no fear; good news, Mademoiselle," lied I, with the string swinging from my finger. "I was just about to search for you, and--oh, yes, good news, good news indeed, only all is not yet quite clear." "Must we still wait, Monsieur?" At the disappointment in her tone I winced, but there was nothing for it but to brazen out my part as best I could. "That is just it, we must wait. But this time, not for long, and to shorten the waiting I think that to-morrow I shall ride into La Voulle, perhaps with Gaston?" "To La Voulle with Gaston? That is a long ride for the child." "Long? Surely not. He rides as far every day, but he rides as a dog runs, up and down, here and there, so that we lose count of distance. I thought it would please Brother Paul to meet him in La Voulle. You know he returns to-morrow from Pau." "But,"--and in the shadow I saw a touch of colour flush her cheeks--"I do not think I can go to La Voulle, at least not to-morrow. Once all is clear between us, and Brother Paul is home, it will be different." "Is not all clear now, Mademoiselle?"