“Yes!” He wrote busily. “Banishment for how long, Marcel? For his lifetime?”
“Nay, Sire. That were too long.”
“For my lifetime, then?”
“Again that were too long.”
He raised his eyes and smiled. “Ah! You turn prophet? Well, for how long, then? Come, man.”
“I should think five years—”
“Five years be it. Say no more.”
He wrote on for a few moments; then he raised the sandbox and sprinkled the document.
“Tiens!” he cried, as he dusted it and held it out to me. “There is my warrant for the disposal of Monsieur le Vicomte Leon de Lavedan. He is to go into banishment for five years, but his estates shall suffer no sequestration, and at the end of that period he may return and enjoy them—we hope with better loyalty than in the past. Get them to execute that warrant at once, and see that the Vicomte starts to-day under escort for Spain. It will also be your warrant to Mademoiselle de Lavedan, and will afford proof to her that your mission has been successful.”
“Sire!” I cried. And in my gratitude I could say no more, but I sank on my knee before him and raised his hand to my lips.