The prisoner never tired of watching the sunny curls upon the brow of Laurence MacKim, as he wandered about trying the benches, the chairs, and even the floor in a hundred attitudes in search of a comfortable position.

“Ah,” the sallow youth said at last, one afternoon as he lay on his pallet, “you should be one of the choristers of my master’s chapel.  You can sing like an angel!”

“Well,” laughed Laurence in reply, “I would be indeed content, if he be a good master, and if in his house it snoweth wherewithal to eat and drink.  But tell me what unfortunate may have the masterage of so profitless a servant as yourself?”

“I am the poor gentleman Gilles de Sille of the household of the Marshal de Retz!” answered the swarthy youth, readily.

“De Silly indeed to bide with such a master!” quoth Laurence, with his usual prompt heedlessness of consequences.

The sallow youth with his bandaged head did not understand the poor jest, but, taking offence at the tone, he instantly reared himself on his elbow and darted a look at Laurence from under brows so lowering and searching that Laurence fell back in mock terror.

“Nay,” he cried, shaking at the knees and letting his hands swing ludicrously by his sides, “do not affright a poor clerk!  If you look at me like that I will call the cook from yonder eating-stall to protect me with his basting-ladle.  I wot if he fetches you one on the other side of your cracked sconce, you will never take service again with the Marshal de Retz.”

“What know you of my master?” reiterated Gilles de Sille, glowering at his mercurial jailer, without heeding his persiflage.

“Why, nothing at all,” said Laurence, truthfully, “except that while we stood listening to the singing of the choir within his hotel, a poor woman came crying for her son, whom (so she declared) the marshal had kidnapped.  Whereat came forth the guard from within, and thrust her away.  Then arrived you and your varlets and got your heads broken for your impudence.  That is all I know or want to know of your master.”

Gilles de Sille lay back on his pallet with a sigh, still, however, continuing to watch the lad’s countenance.

“You should indeed take service with the marshal.  He is the most lavish and generous master alive.  He thinks no more of giving a handful of gold pieces to a youth with whom he is taken than of throwing a crust to a beggar at his gate.  He owns the finest province in all the west from side to side.  He has castles well nigh a dozen, finer and stronger than any in France.  He has a college of priests, and the service at his oratory is more nobly intoned than that in the private chapel of the Holy Father himself.  When he goes in procession he has a thurifer carried before him by the Pope’s special permission.  And I tell you, you are just the lad to take his fancy.  That I can see at a glance.  I warrant you, Master Laurence, if you will come with me, the marshal will make your fortune.”