FOR a moment I stood, thinking of Achon’s last words, and then it all came back to me. It was he who had played the mendicant friar in Paris, that night when Lignières had died. It was he who had got the letters and the scroll of names. He was right. He held enough in his hands to bring Marcilly and myself to the block, and to ruin the honor of Marie. Then there was Ponthieu--come what may, I was resolved that he should have a blow struck for him. I felt as if I was personally responsible for the ill-luck that had overtaken him. But for what I had said he would never have undertaken the rash enterprise that had brought him to misfortune, and I could not leave him to his fate. My mind had for the moment righted itself, and I was once again Gaspard de Vibrac. Other things also urged me powerfully. The mortification of being outwitted and browbeaten by the priest moved me to hot anger. The shame of being overlooked and mocked at during my struggle with myself burned in my veins, and, mingled with the desire to do something for Ponthieu, was a savage resentment against Achon. It would have gone hard with Monsieur of Arles, had we met at that juncture. Swelling like an asp with rage, and dagger in hand, I stepped up to the press, passing between it and the wall. There was the door by which Achon had entered, and it was half open. He had doubtless not closed it behind him when he came in, for fear of any noise attracting our attention. I cautiously pushed it back. Before me lay a long and narrow corridor, half in darkness and half in light. Up this I crept softly, feeling on either hand for anything like a door. I was confident that if I could find one, it would lead to Achon’s apartment, and then I would show him if de Vibrac feared to die. There was no result, however, to my search. At last I was brought to a standstill by a dead wall. I tapped it gently with my fingers, placed my ear against it, and searched the surface keenly, but with no avail. My eyes could see nothing. My hand but met the rough, uneven surface of the stonework. The secret of the passage, wherever it was, was too well concealed for me to discover in the short time at my disposal, and disappointed, but not despairing, I returned as I had come. I resolved to seek Marcilly, and went out into the hall. A small lantern burned there dimly, and above me curled the brown spiral of the stairway that led to our chamber. Taking the lantern in my hand, I went up, and knocked again and again at the door without receiving any reply. A fear seized me that perhaps Marcilly had come to harm; but just as I was about to put my shoulder to the door and attempt to stave it in, I heard Jean’s voice. “Is that you, Gaspard?” “Yes, I----Open!” The door swung back, and I saw Badehorn sleepily rubbing his eyes and muttering apologies; beyond him, Marcilly lay half-dressed on the bed, his sword on a stool beside him. As I put down the lantern and closed the door, he said: