"Yes, Fidele," he sobbed. "That is the title of honor which your royal mother gave me—that is the name that she wrote on the bit of paper which she put into the gold smelling-bottle that she gave me. That little bottle, which a queen once carried, is my most precious possession, and yet I would part with that if I could save the life of her son, happy if I could but retain the hallowed paper on which the queen's hand wrote the word 'Fidele.' Yes, you poor, pitiable son of kings, I am Fidele, I am Toulan, at whom you have so often laughed when he played with you in your prison."
A flash like the sunlight passed over the face of the child, and a smile illumined his features.
"She used to laugh, too," he whispered—"she, too, my mamma queen."
"Yes, she too laughed at our jests," said Toulan, with a voice choked with tears; "and, believe me, she looks down from heaven upon us and smiles her blessing, for she knows that Toulan has come to free her dear son, and to deliver him from the executioner's hands. Tell me now, my king and my dearly-loved lord, will you trust me, will you give to your most devoted servant and subject the privilege of releasing you? Do you consent to accept freedom at the hands of your Fidele?"
The child threw a timid, anxious glance at Simon and his wife, and then, with a shudder, turned his head to one side.
"You make no answer, sire," said Toulan, imploringly. "Oh! speak, my king, may I set you free?"
The boy spoke a few words in reply, but so softly that Toulan could not understand him. He stooped down nearer to him, and put his ear close to the lips of the child. He then could hear the words, inaudible to all but him,
"He will disclose you; take care, Toulan. But do not say any thing, else he will beat me to death!"
Toulan made no reply; he only impressed a long, tender kiss upon the trembling hand of the child.
"Did he speak?" asked Simon. "Did you understand, citizen, what he said?"