His mind wandered, and again became keen with the
old-time cynicism and philosophy, as a coal glows and fades in a fitful
wind. In all these weeks he had left his bed but once . . . to find
that his son was lost in the woods, a captive, perhaps dead. Too late;
he had always been too late. He had turned the forgiving hand away.
And how had he wronged that hand?
"Margot?" he said, speaking to a shadow.
Jehan rose from his chair and approached his master. His withered,
leathery face had lost the power to express emotion; but his faded eyes
sparkled suspiciously.
"Monsieur?" he said.
"What o'clock is it?" asked the marquis, irritably.
"It is midnight, Monsieur."
"Monsieur le Comte has not come in yet? With his sponging friends, I
suppose; drinking and gaming at the Corne d'Abondance." Thus had the
marquis spoken in the Rochelle days. "A sip of wine; I am cold."
Jehan put his arm around the thin shoulders of his master and held the
glass to the trembling lips. A hectic flush superseded the pallor, and
the delusion was gone. The coal glowed. "It is you, Jehan? Well, my
faithful henchman, you will have to continue the journey alone.
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