“Sire and my lord duke,” said David, earnestly, “I hope my poor words have done no injustice.  I have looked into that lady’s eyes.  I will stake my life that she is an angel, letter or no letter.”

The duke looked at him steadily.  “I will put you to the proof,” he said, slowly.  “Dressed as the king, you shall, yourself, attend mass in his carriage at midnight.  Do you accept the test?”

David smiled.  “I have looked into her eyes,” he said.  “I had my proof there.  Take yours how you will.”

Half an hour before twelve the Duke d’Aumale, with his own hands, set a red lamp in a southwest window of the palace.  At ten minutes to the hour, David, leaning on his arm, dressed as the king, from top to toe, with his head bowed in his cloak, walked slowly from the royal apartments to the waiting carriage.  The duke assisted him inside and closed the door.  The carriage whirled away along its route to the cathedral.

On the qui vive in a house at the corner of the Rue Esplanade was Captain Tetreau with twenty men, ready to pounce upon the conspirators when they should appear.

But it seemed that, for some reason, the plotters had slightly altered their plans.  When the royal carriage had reached the Rue Christopher, one square nearer than the Rue Esplanade, forth from it burst Captain Desrolles, with his band of would-be regicides, and assailed the equipage.  The guards upon the carriage, though surprised at the premature attack, descended and fought valiantly.  The noise of conflict attracted the force of Captain Tetreau, and they came pelting down the street to the rescue.  But, in the meantime, the desperate Desrolles had torn open the door of the king’s carriage, thrust his weapon against the body of the dark figure inside, and fired.

Now, with loyal reinforcements at hand, the street rang with cries and the rasp of steel, but the frightened horses had dashed away.  Upon the cushions lay the dead body of the poor mock king and poet, slain by a ball from the pistol of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys.

THE MAIN ROAD

Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle.  It joined with another and a larger road at right angles.  David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then sat himself to rest upon its side.

Whither these roads led he knew not.  Either way there seemed to lie a great world full of chance and peril.  And then, sitting there, his eye fell upon a bright star, one that he and Yvonne had named for theirs.  That set him thinking of Yvonne, and he wondered if he had not been too hasty.  Why should he leave her and his home because a few hot words had come between them?  Was love so brittle a thing that jealousy, the very proof of it, could break it?  Mornings always brought a cure for the little heartaches of evening.  There was yet time for him to return home without any one in the sweetly sleeping village of Vernoy being the wiser.  His heart was Yvonne’s; there where he had lived always he could write his poems and find his happiness.