“Sacred name!” he cried; “I have left my pistols behind!  I can trust no others.”

“Take this,” said the marquis, drawing from beneath his cloak a shining, great weapon, ornamented with carven silver.  “There are none truer.  But guard it closely, for it bears my arms and crest, and already I am suspected.  Me, I must put many leagues between myself and Paris this night.  To-morrow must find me in my chateau.  After you, dear countess.”

The marquis puffed out the candle.  The lady, well cloaked, and the two gentlemen softly descended the stairway and flowed into the crowd that roamed along the narrow pavements of the Rue Conti.

David sped.  At the south gate of the king’s residence a halberd was laid to his breast, but he turned its point with the words; “The falcon has left his nest.”

“Pass, brother,” said the guard, “and go quickly.”

On the south steps of the palace they moved to seize him, but again the mot de passe charmed the watchers.  One among them stepped forward and began:  “Let him strike—­” but a flurry among the guards told of a surprise.  A man of keen look and soldierly stride suddenly pressed through them and seized the letter which David held in his hand.  “Come with me,” he said, and led him inside the great hall.  Then he tore open the letter and read it.  He beckoned to a man uniformed as an officer of musketeers, who was passing.  “Captain Tetreau, you will have the guards at the south entrance and the south gate arrested and confined.  Place men known to be loyal in their places.”  To David he said:  “Come with me.”

He conducted him through a corridor and an anteroom into a spacious chamber, where a melancholy man, sombrely dressed, sat brooding in a great, leather-covered chair.  To that man he said: 

“Sire, I have told you that the palace is as full of traitors and spies as a sewer is of rats.  You have thought, sire, that it was my fancy.  This man penetrated to your very door by their connivance.  He bore a letter which I have intercepted.  I have brought him here that your majesty may no longer think my zeal excessive.”

“I will question him,” said the king, stirring in his chair.  He looked at David with heavy eyes dulled by an opaque film.  The poet bent his knee.

“From where do you come?” asked the king.

“From the village of Vernoy, in the province of Eure-et-Loir, sire.”

“What do you follow in Paris?”

“I—­I would be a poet, sire.”

“What did you in Vernoy?”

“I minded my father’s flock of sheep.”

The king stirred again, and the film lifted from his eyes.

“Ah! in the fields!”

“Yes, sire.”

“You lived in the fields; you went out in the cool of the morning and lay among the hedges in the grass.  The flock distributed itself upon the hillside; you drank of the living stream; you ate your sweet, brown bread in the shade, and you listened, doubtless, to blackbirds piping in the grove.  Is not that so, shepherd?”