"Good, La Force. Let them enter."
M. La Force fairly pushed us over the sill, so abashed were we, and shut the door upon us.
The king was alone. But before this simple gentleman in the rusty black, M. Étienne caught his breath as he had not done before a court in full pomp. He had seen courts, but he had never seen the first soldier of Europe. He advanced three steps into the room, and forgot to kneel, forgot to lower his gaze in the presence, but merely stared wide-eyed at majesty, as majesty stared at him. Thus they stood surveying each other from top to toe in the frankest curiosity, till at length the king spoke:
"M. de Mar, you look less like a carpet-knight than I expected."
M. Étienne came to himself, to kneel at once.
"Sire, I blush for my looks. But your zealous soldiers would not let me from their clutches. I am just come from killing Paul de Lorraine."
"What! the spy Lucas?"
"Himself. And when I left the spot by way of the window in some haste, I was not expecting this honour, Sire."
"Nor do I think you deserve it, ventre-saint-gris!" the king cried. "Though you come hatless and coat-less to-day, you have been a long time on the road, M. de Mar."
"Aye, Sire."