upon the ice, whirls in a moment down the steep descent whereon by choice he had painfully crept for hours. Perhaps he survives, perhaps he does not; but, at the best, such plunges leave some aches and scratches behind.
"Will he never come?" exclaimed François, and on the instant heard the soutane of the priest brushing along the rose-hedged walk.
"Well, mon père!"
"Well, my son! He is not dead, and may not be mortally hurt: they cannot yet tell. But Mademoiselle Salerne accuses you of the murder, as she calls it; and your father is in a white rage because the king will be displeased at him. He has sent one man into Marseilles for a surgeon, another for the police to arrest you. He speaks, too, of his seigneurial rights, and of cutting off the hand which has shed the blood of an elder brother. If he finds you to-night he will do some mad thing, not to be remedied to-morrow. You must hide for a day or so at least."
François made a haughty gesture of dissent, and twisted his arm from the hold of the priest, who reluctantly produced his last argument,—
"Mademoiselle Valerie wishes it."
"Wishes me to fly?"
"Yes. She gave me this note, and whispered, 'For God's sake bid him keep out of the way!'"
"A note! How shall I read it? All depends upon what she says. Mon père, have you some of that magical stuff you were showing me this morning, that which makes light in the dark? Can you make light for me now?"
