eyes on Paul's face. His unctuous piety was pervaded by a strong tinge of irony, and he seemed to be enjoying himself more than his secretary.
"True, Monseigneur, and yet—"
"And yet?"
"Even in those days I had the honor to draw the water for Monseigneur!"
The Prince laughed softly, with an Italian subtlety of intonation. "Faith, Paul, I love thee for that," he said. "You were ever an endearing little coward. But as to this plot: what has been done with the prisoner?"
"We have tried to persuade him—"
"To give up the names of his accomplices. His own, I think, is Rohan de Lusignan."
"Your memory, Monseigneur—"
"Send him to the rack," interrupted the Prince, blandly.
"We have already—"
"Still obdurate? Poor little child! But this is dangerous, Paul; his accomplices are still at large. They may strike at any moment: now, while I sit here, a shot fired through the window might wreck all my plans. Stand between me and the window, Paul."
The secretary obeyed, whitening; he feared the bullets sorely, but he feared his master more.
"I and my country are one: you are glad, aren't you, to have a chance of giving your life for your country? That's my brave Paul! So torture won't make him speak? Have you threatened him with death?"
"We had him out before a file of soldiers this morning, and shot him with blank cartridges."
"What suffering, and what heroism! We'll try a different measure: bring him in to me."
The secretary retired, and the Prince was alone in the firelit darkness. A supple, slender form, and richly dressed, he sat gazing into the flames with the eyes of a dreamer, his lips parted in a winning and subtle smile. The fierce ambition which had marked him even in the days of his peasant childhood had set no traces on the sensuous oval of his face; and yet he was no actor, but simply a man of dual nature, in whom the ruthless temperament of Florentine intrigue yielded at times to the caprices of a luxurious tenderness. His was the true adventurer's spirit, which set the lust of dominion first, but had separate niches for all the passions, including the softest feminine sentiment. He turned with a look of pity at the sound of stumbling footsteps in the corridor without; a voice said, "Drag the fool along; he can't walk."
"Fresh from the rack," said the Prince to himself, "poor child!" His eyes were luminous with tears.
The door opened, and Paul came in, half carrying and half dragging the body of a young man, whose clothes were stained here and there with wet, red patches that widened.
"Monseigneur, I have brought the traitor whose nefarious hand—" he began, consequentially.
"Ah, yes," the Prince interrupted him. "Lay him down and leave him."
The secretary obeyed. He had learnt through long practice to bear the mutilation of his periods without a murmur. As soon as he had gone the Prince came and knelt beside his captive. He was young, scarcely more than a boy: dark, with blunt, strong features that suggested Gascon birth; but his eyes were dark blue and wonderfully insolent and romantic. He lay quite still, conscious, but seemingly disabled; he returned the pitying glance of the Prince with a watchful, hostile gaze.
"You are hurt, my child," said the Prince, in his caressing voice.
"Why, yes," he answered coolly. "I am chiefly sorry I failed to kill you."
"You love your country?"
"I do not speak of what I love to canaille."
"No. Forgive me; I must hurt you worse, I fear. You will permit me to touch you?" He lifted his enemy with strong and careful hands and laid him on a couch beside the fire; then getting linen and a basin of water, he did what he could for the tortured man. Very still lay Rohan, very cold and quiet, yielding nothing to the Prince's entreating eyes. When all was done that could be done, the Prince spoke again, throwing himself down on a rug before the fire. He leaned his cheek on his hand, and the two faces in firelight and shadow were very close to each other.
