“Monsieur,” I said, “this is His Highness’ bed-chamber.” “I am aware of that,” he answered grimly; “I desire to inquire after his health.” The suspicious ring in his voice was not to be mistaken, and it was absolutely necessary for me to have a few minutes alone with the Prince and Marcilly. Knowing the class from which Comminges sprang, I at once chose my line of action. “Monsieur de Comminges,” I said kindly, “it is a Prince of the blood who lies there, prisoner though he be. Even Monsieur de Bresy does not visit him without notice, and I am sure that least of all would you, a gentleman and a soldier, intrude upon him. Perhaps I had better announce you. It will not delay you above a minute or so.” I looked at him steadily as I spoke, and the very gentleness of my tones made the reproof harder. He flushed under his tanned skin, and drew back a little. It was enough; and, without waiting for his answer, I stepped in, closing the door upon Comminges. The room was in semi-gloom; the curtains of the bed were drawn, and within it lay a figure covered to the ears with rugs. Another figure sat by the edge of the bed, and the fitful flames of the fire burned redly through the uncertain light, half day and half night. As I entered the watcher by the bed rose to his feet, and I whispered quickly, “De Bresy is safe, Marcilly,” and then Condé, for it was he, began to chuckle, and I saw my mistake. “Your pardon, Monseigneur--the light deceived me.” From within the bed came a hacking cough. “The poor Prince has a bad cough,” said Condé, as he shook again with silent merriment; but I stopped him--there was no time to lose--and whispered quickly what we know, merely stating facts and going into no details. “Let Comminges enter,” said Condé, when I had ended, adding: “He would be flattered if allowed to watch by His Highness.” I nodded and moved toward the door; but the Prince stayed me. “A moment!” he said, and stooping over the bedside, he whispered something in Marcilly’s ear, pressing his hand in good-by. Then he rose and turned to me. “I will admit Comminges. Stay here and keep him engaged until I slip out.” With these words he moved forward toward the door, leaving me by Marcilly, the friend whom I had betrayed to his death. I stood there, shame and remorse in my heart, and tongue-tied with my own infamy. I dared not address a word to him, but kept my face averted. I heard the door open softly, and Comminges step into the darkened room. The Prince moved backward into the shadow of the door, as if to let him pass, making a little motion with his hand toward the bed. As the heavy footfall of the lieutenant fell on the floor, and his huge spurs jangled, Marcilly broke out again into his cough, and, turning uneasily on one side, closed his eyes, as if in sleep. “He is bad,” I whispered to Comminges as he came up to the bed; “much worse than I thought.”