"One moment, Mademoiselle, one moment," he said testily, and as he spoke Blaise returned, a pile of sober grey stuff on his arm. This Monsieur de Commines snatched from him. "Now the horses, quickly, but with no noise," and at last the door was shut. "Monseigneur, what does this mean?" "It means, Mademoiselle, that the King is dead." "Dead? Louis--the King--dead? That hypocrite, that tyrant--dead? God be thanked for His justice!" "He was the greatest man in France," answered Monseigneur, with something like a sob in his throat. "He was the greatest King France ever knew. For eleven years he was my master and my friend--and he is dead." "God be thanked!" I repeated, for my heart was very sore and very hard; how was it possible I could find pity for Louis of Valois? "If he was the greatest man in France, he was also the worst." "What he was is for God's judgment, Mademoiselle, and it is my belief that Kings do not stand at the same bar as common men." "But Gaspard? Monsieur de Commines, what of Gaspard?" A shiver shook him as if he was chilly even in the August heat, but the lines of sorrow softened on his face. "Take heart, Mademoiselle. Please God, we shall save him yet, or at least you shall." "I? Oh, Monseigneur! God be thanked! God be thanked! But how? What must I do?" "The King's death forgives the King's debt, Mademoiselle." "Ah! Did I not say it was His finger! But who shall tell them in Poictiers, The King is dead?" "You and Lesellè. Blaise is saddling the horses." "Eight hours, and thirty leagues to ride?" "Nearly nine, and not twenty-five, nor is there any spur like love." "I rode for love's sake two days ago, and it cost me fourteen hours." "You had but one horse, and lost your way. Young Lesellè knows the road well, and yesterday I ordered relays to be ready at Sainte Maure and Chatellerault." "Lesellè? Why not Blaise?" "Lesellè is one of the King's guard, and his uniform carries authority." "Oh, Monseigneur!" and I caught him by the hand, kissing it, "you think of everything." "And what thought have you not taken?" he answered. "Now, Mademoiselle, go into that inner room and dress; remember that to-night you ride a race." Men twit us with the slow niceness with which we women make ourselves dainty to their eyes, and if we failed so to make ourselves dainty they would twit us the more. But that night there was no dallying. I did not wait so long as to untie my points, but slit them open with my girdle dagger, and then thanked God that at Morsigny the daily dressing of little Gaston taught me how to handle boys' clothing. What had taken an hour with a lover's eyes to be met, was undone and done in less time than the saddling of two horses. Tall and slim, my hair coifed out of sight, under the twinkle of the starlight I made as mannish a boy as Blaise himself. Monseigneur was giving Dâvidd Lesellè his final instructions.