“A wicked man fears his own shadow,” said Monsieur Maurice, gravely. “Hartmann saw nothing but the reflection of his crime upon the mirror of his conscience.”
I was silenced, but not convinced. Some minutes later, having thought it over, I returned to the charge.
“But, Monsieur Maurice,” I said, “it is not the first time he has been here.”
“Who? The King?”
“No—the brown man.”
Monsieur Maurice frowned.
“Nay, nay,” he said, impatiently, “prithee, no more of the brown man. 'Tis a folly, and I dislike it.”
“But he was here in the park the night you tried to run away,” I said, persistently. “He saved your life by knocking up the musket that was pointed at your head!”
Pale as he always was, Monsieur Maurice turned paler still at these words of mine. His very lips whitened.
“What is that you say?” he asked, stopping short and laying his hand upon my shoulder.