She flushed under my words.

“Ah, it is no little thing brought me.  You knew M. de Mar was arrested?”

We assented; she went on, more to me than to Vigo, as if in telling me she was telling M. Etienne.  She spoke low, as if in pain.

“After supper M. de Mayenne went back to his cabinet and let out Paul de Lorraine.”

“I wish we had killed him,” I muttered.  “We had no time or weapons.”

“M. de Mayenne sent for me then,” she went on, wetting her lips.  “I have never seen him so angry.  He was furious because M. de Mar had been before his face and he had not known it.  He felt he had been made a mock of.  He raged against me—­I never knew he could be so angry.  He said the Spanish envoy was too good for me; I should marry Paul de Lorraine to-morrow.”

“Mordieu, mademoiselle!”

“That was not it.  I had borne that!” she cried.  “Mayhap I deserved it.  But while my lord thundered at me, word came that M. de Mar was taken.  My lord swore he should die.  He swore no man ever set him at naught and lived to boast of it.”

“Will—­”

She swept on unheeding: 

“He said he should be tried for the murder of Pontou—­he should be tortured to make him confess it.”

She dropped down on her knees, hiding her face in her arms on the table, shaking from head to foot as in an ague.  Vigo swore to himself, loudly, violently:  “If Mayenne do that, by the throne of Heaven, I’ll kill him!”

She sprang to her feet, dry-eyed, fierce as a young lioness.

“Is that all you can say?  Mayenne may torture him and be killed for it?”

“I shall send to the duke—­” Vigo began.

“Aye!  I shall go to the duke!  I can say who killed Pontou.  I know much besides to tell the king.  I was Mayenne’s cousin, but if he would save his secrets he must give up M. de Mar.  Mother of God!  I have been his obedient child; I have let him do so with me as he would.  I sent my lover away.  I consented to the Spanish marriage.  But to this I will not submit.  He shall not torture and kill Etienne de Mar!”

Vigo took her hand and kissed it.

“Shall we start, Vigo?  Once at St. Denis, I am hostage for his safety.  The king can tell Mayenne that if Mar is tortured he will torture me!  Mayenne may not tender me greatly, but he will not relish his cousin’s breaking on the wheel.”

“Mayenne won’t torture M. Etienne,” Vigo said, patting her hand in both of his, forgetting she was a great lady, he an equery.  “Fear not! you will save him, mademoiselle.”

“Let us go!” she cried feverishly.  “Let us go!”

Gilles was in the court waiting, stripped of his livery, dressed peaceably as a porter, but with a mallet in his hand that I should not like to receive on my crown.  I thought we were ready, but Vigo bade us wait.  I stood on the house-steps with mademoiselle, while he took aside Squinting Charlot for a low-voiced, emphatic interview.