"I suppose you loved her," the duke put in with ironical intent.
But the smith saw no reason for irony.
"Eh, bon Dieu!" he ejaculated. "And save your highness's respect, we've loved each other ever since we were out of the cradle, we have. So I made the old folks consent. I'm a smith, I am. I forge my own chains. Stand around, Susette! His highness won't hurt you. Look!"
He stepped aside. He gave a gentle thrust to the girl who had been sheltering back of him. The chain rattled.
And there was another cry of surprise.
One of the girl's wrist's also was ornamented with a steel handcuff tightly welded. Not only that, but to this also was attached a chain. The smith threw up his arm. It was the same chain that was welded to his own handcuff—ten feet of it, glistening steel, unbreakable.
"There's your ten-foot chain, highness," cried Gaspard. "And it's no trick-chain, either," he added. "It's a chain that will hold. You bet it will. I forged it myself, and I know. It's a chain you couldn't buy. Why? Because—because the iron of it's mixed with love. Nor can it be cut, nor filed, nor broken. I'm a smith, I am. And each link of it I tempered myself—with sweat and blood."
There for a time it was a question—possibly a question in the mind of the duke himself—just how many minutes the smith still had to live. Many a valet had been executed for less. During a period of about thirty seconds the duke's face went black. Then the blackness dispersed. He slowly smiled.
After all, he wasn't to be cheated of his experiment.
But he answered the question that was in his own mind and the minds of all the others there as he looked at the smith and said: