Sucking the liquid from the cup with as much noise and spilling of its contents as if he had been a half-weaned child, the King pointed a shaking finger at me. "That--that--lady," he said, mocking, "need have no fear. I have Monsieur--how civil you are, d'Argenton, with your Monsieurs and your ladys!--I have the rascal Hellewyl safe, and will hurt neither her nor hers. God forbid!" he went on unctuously, and turning his eyes towards the side of the bed opposite to where Maître Coctier stood. There, a guardian over the soul, as Coctier over the body--and which was the more grievously sick, God knows!--stood a frocked monk, white bearded, white moustached, and rigid as a statue, his hands folded humbly across his breast. "God forbid that I should punish the innocent for the guilty, that would be mortal sin, eh, Father Francis?" "Then, Sire," cried Monseigneur, "we have your promise?" "My oath, if you like, man! Why! what a mystery you make about a--a--common----" "She is Mademoiselle de Narbonne," said Monsieur de Commines, breaking in curtly, as Louis paused to pick his vilest epithet. Drawing his palms under him at each side, the King pushed himself to such a sitting posture that for very weakness his chin fell forward on his breast. "Narbonne?" he whispered huskily, his jaw working with sudden excitement. Whether from Coctier's potion or from some stimulant of the devil, fire woke in the dull eyes; and a broad spot of red flushed the skin above the cheek bones. "A Narbonne, you say, d'Argenton--a Narbonne? And yet this rascal Hellewyl----" "Monsieur de Helville's promised wife, Sire," I cried, crushing back my indignation, and falling on my knees to this loathsome King. "A miserable, broken-hearted woman who pleads for her lover's life. Oh, Sire, Sire! be merciful, be gracious. As God has given you greatness----" "Bah!" he snarled in a splutter; "be silent, girl!" Then, with a sudden shift to a mocking smoothness, he went on in the same breath: "Oh! we ask your pardon! Give us time to think, Mademoiselle de Narbonne. Narbonne? ho! ho! Narbonne? Narbonne? Come nearer, d'Argenton," and sinking back on his pillows with a moan he beckoned to Monseigneur. "Narbonne? What Narbonne?" "Cousin twice or thrice removed to Jean de Foix, Sire, and guardian to the young Gaston." "By God! d'Argenton, we win in the end!" he broke out, shaking his finger at me. "Cousin to Jean de Foix? That girl stands for Navarre, and we'll wring--wring our rights out of her!" "Oh, Sire!" cried Monseigneur, "your promise, your promise!" "Your oath!" said a deeper voice, and Francis of Paulo laid his hands fearlessly on the meagre shoulder nearest him. "Dare you forswear yourself--dare you lie in the very ear of God, and the grave open at the bed's edge?" Round upon him turned Louis, striking upward feebly like an angry cat.