"Diane?"
"Yes; Diane de Poitiers—Diane, Duchess of Valentinois—Diane, the curse of France! But I should play the Caliph Aaron no more, and keep home of nights; better still, take horse with the dawn for Navarre!"
There was a strange earnestness in the speaker's voice. There he was, one knee to ground, a finger resting on the ill-omened crest of the mistress of the King, the moon shining on his rich dress of black and gold, on the sharp, weasel-like face, and keen eyes that looked up at his friend.
"There is more in this than I thought at first," I said to myself, and scanned the features of the dead man more closely. He looked like a foreigner, and, saying that I was going to see after the other, I turned away, but with my ears skinned, as I began to dislike the affair exceedingly.
As I suspected, the jester began to warn his friend once more.
"Monseigneur, there has been enough folly for tonight, and your wound is but slight. Go not into the house! Let us thank him—reward him if you will—but let us be off!"
"Hush, Le Brusquet!" said the other in the same low tone. "There is no fear, and if there is danger I turn not from it."
I had heard enough, and seen enough too. The other man had got off somehow. He had fallen, it is true, but recovered himself sufficiently to make away. One can never be sure of the riposte in an uncertain light, and uncertain moonlight is worst of all.
"He has got off," I said as I returned; "and 'twere well to have your wound looked after, if you mean to have it done."
With this I led the way to the door of my house, and opening it bade them enter. The fair-haired man passed in at once, but I caught a gleam in Le Brusquet's hand as he followed. He had drawn his dagger once more.