"I cannot! God! I cannot, I cannot!" he muttered, and gulping for breath, stood staring at me with blinking eyes. "Murder? Shame, Monsieur de Helville, shame, shame to think such a thought of a Christian king, such a thought of me--_of me_!" groping upward, he again patted the image on his cap. "See! I swear it, by the Virgin, by the Virgin; God strike me--strike me--eh? You understand? I seek peace, Monsieur, only peace and the good of France, and--yes, yes,--the pleasing of God, that of course, always, the pleasing of God. Again I ask, do you say No! to such a service? Dare any man say No? Dare any--any----" His voice fell, quavering, his jaw dropped, and a look of abject terror broke across his face. Swaying on his feet he pawed blindly at the air, then collapsed backwards in a heap upon the cushions. "Coctier! Coctier! Coctier!" he screamed. "For the love of Christ, come to me. Coctier! Coctier! Ah! dear God! not this time, give me a little longer, just a little, little longer!" Whimpering, he tore at his throat with powerless fingers, and thinking he wanted his cloak loosened at the collar I ran forward to help him. But he dug at me with his nails, spitting like a frightened cat. "Not you, not you; no man but Coctier. Mon Dieu! will no man send me Coctier!" again his voice rose to a scream. "The King is dying, Coctier, Coctier! dying! dying!" Turning to seek help, I ran full tilt into the arms of Monsieur de Commines, who, with Maitre Jacques Coctier, the King's physician, was hastening in answer to the cry. "Monseigneur----" "Dolt! You have crossed him and I bid you not. He is never like this except when crossed. If the King dies, by God! you may count Jan Flamael's end a happy one," and striking at me, he ran on. Down on one knee went Coctier, his fingers busy with the throat of the King's cloak, and as I drew back I heard Louis' voice as if in answer to a question. "A priest? No, no, not this time, not this time. Priests are for the sick, for the dying--and I must live that there may be peace." Peace! It was curious how I stumbled on the word. First Mademoiselle, then Monsieur de Commines, and now the King; all desired peace, but it seemed to me that to all peace did not mean the same thing. CHAPTER XIV MONSIEUR DE COMMINES EXPLAINS At what length, and in what terms, Monsieur de Commines berated me I need say little. Those who know his command of vigorous language may judge, but had his tongue been a birch rod, and I a little thievish boy, caught red-handed, I could not have been more sorely lashed. Epithets flew as thick as snow-flakes in winter, but were neither as cold nor as soft. I was a blundering dolt, a thick-headed fool, a self-seeking, ungrateful pick-thank. But there I stopped him. "No, Monseigneur, never ungrateful."