“Come, Henri!” said I, “a cup of wine, my friend, and you will be better presently. Thank God, this has not ended as it might.” He raised his eyes towards me, but with a look of proud and unforgiving sternness, while he uttered not a word. “It is unfair to blame me, De Beauvais, for this,” said I. “Once more I say, forgive me!” His lips moved, and some sounds came forth, but I could not hear the words. “There, there,” cried I; “it's past and over now. Here is my hand.” “You struck me with that hand,” said he, in a deep, distinct voice, as though every word came from the very bottom of his chest. “And if I did, Henri, my own life was on the blow.” “Oh that you had taken mine with it!” said he, with a bitterness I can never forget. “I am the first of my name that ever received a blow; would I were to be the last!” “You forget, De Beauvais--” “No, sir; I forget nothing. Be assured, too, I never shall forget this night. With any other than yourself I should not despair of that atonement for an injury which alone can wash out such a stain; but _you_,--I know you well,--_you_ will not give me this.” “You are right, De Beauvais; I will not,” said I, calmly. “Sorry am I that even an accident should have brought us into collision. It is a mischance I feel deeply, and shall for many a day.” “And I, sir,” cried he, as, starting up, his eyes flashed with passion and his cheek grew scarlet,--“and I, sir!--what are to be my feelings? Think you, that because I am an exile and an outcast,--forced by misfortune to wear the livery of one who is not my rightful sovereign,--that my sense of personal honor is the less, and that the mark of an insult is not as blood-stained on my conscience as ever it was?” “Nothing but passion could blind you to the fact that there can be no insult where no intention could exist.” “Spare me your casuistry, sir,” replied he, with an insolent wave of his hand, while he sank into a chair, and laid his head upon the table. For an instant my temper, provoked beyond endurance, was about to give way, when I perceived that a handkerchief was bound tightly around his leg above the knee, where a great stain of blood marked his trouser. The thought of his being wounded banished every particle of resentment, and laying my hand on his shoulder, I said,-- “De Beauvais, I know not one but yourself to whom I would three times say, forgive me. But we were friends once, when we were both happier. For the sake of him who is no more,--poor Charles de Meudon--” “A traitor, sir,--a base traitor to the king of his fathers!” “This I will not endure!” said I, passionately. “No one shall dare--” “Dare!” “Ay, dare, sir!--such was the word. To asperse the memory of one like him is to dare that which no man can, with truth and honor.” “Come, sir, I'm ready,” said Be Beauvais, rising, and pointing to the door, “Sortons!”