And the terrible Lord of Retz, exhausted with his own fury, cast himself at the feet of the gigantic image, which, bending over him, seemed with the same grimace sardonically to mock alike his exaltation and his downfall.

But Laurence heard no more.  For sense and feeling had wholly departed from him, and he lay as one dead behind the door of the temple of Barran-Sathanas, Lord of Evil, in the thrice-abhorrent Castle of Machecoul.

CHAPTER LVI

THE SHADOW BEHIND THE THRONE

Within the grim walls of Black Angers Duke John of Brittany and reigning sovereign of western France was holding his court.  The city and fortress did not properly, of right and parchment holding, appertain to him.  But he had occupied it during the recent troubles with the English, and his loving cousin and nominal suzerain Charles the Seventh of France had not yet been strong enough to make him render it up again.

The Duke sat in the central tower of the fortress of Black Angers, that which looks between the high flanking turrets of the mighty enceinte of walls.  He wriggled discontentedly in his chair and grumbled under his breath.

At his shoulder, tall, gaunt, angular, with lantern jaws and a mouth like a wolf trap, deep-set eyes that flamed under bushy eyebrows, stood Pierre de l’Hopital, the true master of Brittany.

“I tell you I will go to the tennis-courts—­the three Scots must wait audience till to-morrow.  What errand can they have with me—­some rascals whom Charles will not pay now that his job is done?  They come to take service doubtless.  A beggarly lot are all such out-land varlets, but brave—­yes, excellent soldiers are the Scots, so long as they are well fed, that is.”

“Nay, my Lord Duke,” said Pierre de l’Hopital, standing up tall and sombre, his long black gown accentuating the peculiarities of his figure.  “It were almost necessary to see these men now and hear what they have to say.  I myself have seen them and judge it to be so.”

John of Brittany threw down the little sceptre, fashioned in imitation of that made for the King of France, with which he had been toying.  The action was that of a pettish child.

“Oh,” he cried, “if you have decided, there remains nothing for me but to obey!”

“I thank your Excellency for your gracious readiness to grant the men an interview,” said Pierre de l’Hopital, having regard to the essential matter and disregarding the unessential manner.

Duke John sat glooming and kicking his feet to and fro on the raised dais, while behind his chair, impassive as the Grand Inquisitor himself, Pierre de l’Hopital, President of Brittany, lifted a hand to an unseen servitor; and in a few moments the three Scots were ushered into the ducal presence.

The Lord James in virtue of his quality stood a little in front, not by his own will or desire, but because Sholto and his father had so placed themselves that the young noble should have his own rightful precedence.  For as to these things all Scots are careful by nature.