'So do I—the baton for Colonel Hepburn, the Scot, who dresses so magnificently—the cross, and the colonelcy of horse, I leave to your Majesty.
'Thank you, madame, you are exceedingly liberal; Hepburn, shall have his baton, I promise you; but not until he has marched into Lorraine.'
'Sire, the cross of the Holy Ghost, vacant by the execution of the Duke de Montmorenci, Campmaster of the regiment de Normandie, is not yet filled up.'
'Well?'
'I wish it, if you love me,' said the Countess, starting from the table, and throwing her arms round Louis.
'What—Countess, you with a cross of my first order?'
'Marion de l'Orme got one of St. Sepulchre, from the Cardinal, for her lover Senecterre.'
'And for whom do you wish it?' asked the King, suspiciously.
'For no lover, but a friend who will give me a thousand crowns for it—Raynold Cheyne of the Scottish Guard.'
'The cross worn by a peer and marshal of France, the descendant of four constables, one whose patent dates, like our Scottish League, from Charles the Great, for a private gentleman of our guard? Peste!—well, well, 'tis yours, Clara.'