He winced; he pursed his lips, and shot a glance at La Fosse, who was deep in the mysteries of his volume. Then he drew towards him a sheet of paper, and, taking a quill, he sat toying with it.
“Because they call me the Just, I must let justice take its course,” he answered presently.
“But,” I objected, with a sudden hope, “the course of justice cannot lead to the headsman in the case of the Vicomte de Lavedan.”
“Why not?” And his solemn eyes met mine across the table.
“Because he took no active part in the revolt. If he was a traitor, he was no more than a traitor at heart, and until a man commits a crime in deed he is not amenable to the law's rigour. His wife has made his defection clear; but it were unfair to punish him in the same measure as you punish those who bore arms against you, Sire.”
“Ah!” he pondered. “Well? What more?”
“Is that not enough, Sire?” I cried. My heart beat quickly, and my pulses throbbed with the suspense of that portentous moment.
He bent his head, dipped his pen and began to write.
“What punishment would you have me mete out to him?” he asked as he wrote. “Come, Marcel, deal fairly with me, and deal fairly with him—for as you deal with him, so shall I deal with you through him.”
I felt myself paling in my excitement. “There is banishment, Sire—it is usual in cases of treason that are not sufficiently flagrant to be punished by death.”