"Sire," said Renè, after a close investigation, "the dog has been poisoned by arsenic."
"He has eaten a leaf of this book," said Charles; "and if you do not tell me whose book it is I will have your flesh torn from your bones by red-hot pincers."
"Sire," stammered the Florentine, "this book belongs to me!"
"And how did it leave your hands?"
"Her majesty the queen-mother took it from my house."
"Why did she do that?"
"I believe she intended sending it to the King of Navarre, who had asked for a book on hawking."
"Ah," said Charles, "I understand it all! The book was in Harry's room. It is destiny; I must yield to it. Tell me," he went on, turning to Renè, "this poison does not always kill at once?"
"No, sire; but it kills surely. It is a matter of time."
"Is there no remedy?"