“Some day I may need those strokes.  The vicomte does not know that I possess them.”  Victor smiled; then he frowned.  “He is made of iron; he is a stone wall; but he is not as brilliant and daring as you are, Paul.”

“Let us prolong the truce indefinitely,” said the vicomte, later.

Victor bowed without speaking.  The courtesy had something non-committal in it, and it did not escape the keen eye of the vicomte.

“Monsieur, you are the most gallant poet I know,” and the vicomte saluted gravely.

They were becalmed the next day and the day following.  The afternoon of the second day promised to be dull and uninteresting, but grew suddenly pregnant with possibilities when the Comte d’Herouville addressed the vicomte with these words:  “Monsieur, I should like to speak to the Chevalier du Cevennes.  Will you take upon yourself the responsibility of conducting me to his cabin?  It is not possible for me to ask the courtesy of Monsieur de Saumaise.  My patience becomes strained at the sight of him.”

“Certainly, Monsieur,” answered the vicomte, pleasantly, though the perpendicular line above his nose deepened.  “I dare venture that the matter concerns the coming engagement at Quebec, and you desire a witness.”

“Your surmise is correct.  I do not wish to take advantage of him.  I wish to know if he believes he will be in condition.”

“Follow me.”  The vicomte started toward the companionway.

The Chevalier lay in his bunk, in profound slumber.  Breton was dozing over his Rabelais.  The clothes on the hooks moved but slightly.  As the two visitors entered, the lackey lifted his head and placed a finger against his lips.

“He sleeps?” whispered the vicomte.

Breton nodded, eying d’Herouville with disapproval.

The vicomte stared at the wan face on the pillow.  He shrugged his shoulders, and there was an essence of pity in the movement.  Meanwhile the count gazed with idle curiosity at the partitions.  He saw the Chevalier’s court rapier with its jeweled hilt.  The Chevalier’s grandsire had flaunted the slender blade under the great Constable’s nose in the days of Henri II.  There had been a time when he himself had worn a rapier even more valuable; but the Jews had swallowed it even as the gaming tables had swallowed his patrimony.  Next he fingered the long campaign rapier, and looked away as if trying to penetrate the future.  A sharp gasp slipped past his lips.

“Boy,” he said lowly and with apparent calm, “was not that a ship passing?”

Breton looked out of the port-hole.  As he did so the count grasped the vicomte’s arm.  The vicomte turned quickly, and for the first time his eyes encountered the grey cloak.  His breath came sharply, while his hand stretched forth mechanically and touched the garment, sinister and repelling though it was.  There followed his touch a crackling sound, as of paper.  D’Herouville paled.  On the contrary, the vicomte smiled.