De Catinat had taken a step forward with his hand outstretched.  His ardent, impetuous nature had suddenly broken down all the barriers of caution, and he seemed for the instant to see that countless throng of men, women, and children of his own faith, all unable to say a word for themselves, and all looking to him as their champion and spokesman.  He had thought little of such matters when all was well, but now, when danger threatened, the deeper side of his nature was moved, and he felt how light a thing is life and fortune when weighed against a great abiding cause and principle.

“Do not sign it, sire,” he cried.  “You will live to wish that your hand had withered ere it grasped that pen.  I know it, sire.  I am sure of it.  Consider all these helpless folk—­the little children, the young girls, the old and the feeble.  Their creed is themselves.  As well ask the leaves to change the twigs on which they grow.  They could not change.  At most you could but hope to turn them from honest folk into hypocrites.  And why should you do it?  They honour you.  They love you.  They harm none.  They are proud to serve in your armies, to fight for you, to work for you, to build up the greatness of your kingdom.  I implore you, sire, to think again before you sign an order which will bring misery and desolation to so many.”

For a moment the king had hesitated as he listened to the short abrupt sentences in which the soldier pleaded for his fellows, but his face hardened again as he remembered how even his own personal entreaty had been unable to prevail with this young dandy of the court.

“France’s religion should be that of France’s king,” said he, “and if my own guardsmen thwart me in such a matter, I must find others who will be more faithful.  That major’s commission in the mousquetaires must go to Captain de Belmont, Louvois.”

“Very good, sire.”

“And De Catinat’s commission may be transferred to Lieutenant Labadoyere.”

“Very good, sire.”

“And I am to serve you no longer?”

“You are too dainty for my service.”

De Catinat’s arms fell listlessly to his side, and his head sunk forward upon his breast.  Then, as he realised the ruin of all the hopes of his life, and the cruel injustice with which he had been treated, he broke into a cry of despair, and rushed from the room with the hot tears of impotent anger running down his face.  So, sobbing, gesticulating, with coat unbuttoned and hat awry, he burst into the stable where placid Amos Green was smoking his pipe and watching with critical eyes the grooming of the horses.

“What in thunder is the matter now?” he asked, holding his pipe by the bowl, while the blue wreaths curled up from his lips.

“This sword,” cried the Frenchman—­“I have no right to wear it!  I shall break it!”

“Well, and I’ll break my knife too if it will hearten you up.”