As he passed the threshold, Laurence put into his mouth the elastic pellet which had been given him by Blaise Renouf, the choir-master’s son.

The marshal threw himself upon a chair, reclining with a wearied air upon the hands which were clasped behind his head.  In the action of throwing himself back one could see that Gilles de Retz was a young and not an old man, though ordinarily his vitality had been worn to the quick, and both in appearance and movement he was already prematurely aged.

“What is your name?”

The question came with military directness from the lips of the marshal of France.

“Laurence MacKim,” said the lad, with equal directness.

“For what purpose did you come to the Castle of Machecoul?”

“I came,” said Laurence, coolly, “to take service with you, my lord.  And because I was tired of monk rule, and getting only the husks of life, tired too of sitting dumb and watching others eat the kernel.”

“Ha!” cried Gilles de Retz, “I am with you there.  There is, after all, some harmony between our immortal parts.  For my part, I would have all of life,—­husk, kernel, stalk,—­aye, and the root that grows amid the dung.”

He paused a moment, looking at Laurence with the air of a connoisseur.

“Come hither, lad,” he said, with a soft and friendly accent; “sit on this seat with your back to the window.  Turn your head so that the lamp shines aright upon your face.  You are not so handsome as was reported, but that there is something wondrously taking about your countenance, I do admit.  There—­sit so, and fear nothing.”

Laurence sat down with the bad grace of a manly youth who is admired for what he privately despises, and wishes himself well quit of.  But, notwithstanding this, there was something so insinuating and pleasant about the marshal’s manner that the lad almost thought he must have dreamed the incident of the burned door and the sacrifice upon the iron altar.

“You came hither to search for Margaret of Douglas,” said the marshal, suddenly bending forward as if to take him by surprise.

Laurence, wholly taken aback, answered neither yea nor nay, but held his peace.

Then Gilles de Retz nodded sagely, with a quiet satisfaction in his own prevision, which to one less bold and reckless than the young clerk of Dulce Cor would have proved disconcerting.  Then he propounded his next question: 

“How many came hither with you?”

“One,” said Laurence, promptly; “I came here alone with your servant De Sille.”

The marshal smiled.

“Good—­we will try some other method with you,” he said; “but be advised and speak.  None hath ever hidden aught from Gilles de Retz.”

“Then, my lord,” said Laurence, “there is the less reason for you to put me to the question.”

“I can expound dark speeches,” said the marshal, “and I also know my way through the subtleties of lying tongues.  Hope not to lie to me.  How many were they that came to France with you?”