“Mademoiselle, lackeys shall beat the life out of him,” was the answer.

“No, not that way.  Go to him yourself, challenge him.  If underneath his villainy there are concealed the instincts of a gentleman, let him have the chance of dying like one.  But go with one or two others, prepared for treachery.  He may be a scoundrel to the very core of his heart.”

“Believe me, mademoiselle, you treat him far too courteously.”

“Monsieur le Vicomte, he has touched me as an equal.  I believed him to be a man of honor.  Let him so far profit by my mistake, and be punished as I suggest.”

“You shall be obeyed, mademoiselle.  To-morrow I will do myself the honor of visiting you to tell you how he met his punishment—­his death.”

It was not boastfully said.  The Vicomte was one of the most accomplished swordsmen in France.

Within an hour Jeanne St. Clair had left Beauvais.

All this came back to her most vividly as she sat alone in that upper room of the Lion d’Or.  In what manner had Richard Barrington taken his punishment?  She despised him for his mean deceit; by her direction he had been punished; yet with the knowledge that he was a scoundrel came the conviction that he was a brave man.  The scene in that round chamber took shape again.  It was curious how completely she remembered his attitude, his words, his manner, his looks; and not these only, but also the something new in her life, the awakening of an interest that she had never before experienced.  It was not his mission which aroused it, it was not the man himself; it was only that, coincident with his coming, some secret chamber of her soul had been unlocked, and in it were stored new, dreams, new thoughts, new ambitions.  They were added to the old, not given in exchange for them, but they had helped her to appreciate the man’s position when he found the star was iron instead of gold, they had helped her to believe his tale.  Her short interview with this man had suddenly widened her view of life, the horizon of her existence had expanded into a wider circle; this expansion remained, although the man had deceived her.  In spite of that deceit there was something in this Richard Barrington to admire, and she was glad she had demanded that his punishment should be administered by gentlemen, not by lackeys.  Certainly he was not a coward, and no doubt he had met his death as a brave man should.  This train of thought was repeated over and over again, and always there came a moment when out of vacancy the man’s face seemed to turn to her and their eyes met.  She had not the power to look away.  There was something he would compel her to understand, yet for a long while she could not.  Then suddenly she knew.  This surely was a vision.  The spirit of the dead man had come to her.  Why?  Jeanne muttered a prayer, and with the prayer came a question:  had she been justified in sending this man to his death?