I coughed a warning against his betraying us. He hesitated, then despairingly added, in a voice of resignation:
"—my master, the King, of a single stroke of this sword, which I have devoted entirely to his service."
"I do not doubt," said the lady, with cold irony, "that your sword is active enough when drawn in the service of your King."
"My King," replied Blaise with dignity, "had the goodness to make a somewhat similar remark when he took Cahors!"
"Cahors?" repeated the lady in a tone of perplexity. "But the King never took Cahors!"
"The King of France,—no!" cried Blaise; "but the King of Navarre did!"
"Blaise!" I cried, in angry reproof at his imprudence.
The tone in which I spoke had so startled the lady that she dropped her mask, and I saw the sweetest face that ever gladdened the eyes of a man. It was the face of a girl naturally of a cheerful nature, but newly made acquainted with sorrow. Grief had not rendered the nature, or the face, unresponsive to transient impressions of a pleasant or mirthful kind. Hers was one of those hearts in which grief does not exclude all possibility of gaiety. Sorrow might lie at the bottom, never forgotten and never entirely concealed, but merriment might ripple on the surface. As for its outlines, the face, in every part, harmonized with the grace and purity of the chin and mouth. Her eyes were blue and large, with an eloquence displayed without intent or consciousness.
"What does it mean?" she said, in a charming bewilderment. "The servant reproves the master. Ah! I see! The servant is the master."
And she smiled with pleasure at her discovery.