"He hath left the Court momentarily . . . somewhat in disgrace . . . 'twas a monstrous encounter, milor," added the Duke gravely. "Had Gaston killed you it had been murder, for you never meant to shoot, so says de Mortémar."
The sick man's head turned restlessly on the pillow.
"De Mortémar's tongue hath run away with him," he said impatiently.
"The account of the duel . . . nothing more, on my honour," rejoined the Duke. "No woman's name has been mentioned, but I fear me the Court and public have got wind of the story of a conspiracy against the Stuart prince, and connect the duel with that event—hence your popularity, milor," continued the older man with a sigh, "and Gaston's disgrace."
"His Majesty's whipping-boy, eh? the scapegoat in the aborted conspiracy?"
"Poor Gaston! You bear him much ill-will, milor, no doubt?"
"I? None, on my honour."
M. le Duc hesitated a while, a troubled look appeared on his handsome face.
"Lydie," he said tentatively. "Milor, she left Paris that night alone . . . and travelled night and day to reach Le Havre in time to help you and to thwart Gaston . . . she had been foolish of course, but her motives were pure . . . milor, she is my child and . . ."
"She is my wife, M. le Duc," interrupted Lord Eglinton gravely; "I need no assurance of her purity even from her father."