give up the work, because there was no one else to do it. but he would gladly have been called to rest. Still, he went on fighting."
"And in the end?"
"The end is not yet. But I think—in the end—they broke his heart."
The vibrating tones ceased. Rohan did not look up; he fancied that the eyes of the Prince were full of tears, and he was afraid to meet them.
"I will tell you what was worst of all," said the Prince, quietly. "It was that he had to be very cruel when he would rather have been kind: those whom he loved he had to make suffer."
"But, Monseigneur—"
"Well, my brother?"
"You tried—to betray—our country."
It was horribly hard to say, for the Prince did not look like a traitor. And then there was silence: a silence that made de Lusignan wish he had never been born. At last the rich voice went on again. How long it spoke, the younger man did not know, for he found that the Prince was telling him all the plans of his past, present, and future. And, strange to say, the Prince's aims were the very same which Rohan's friends were seeking to attain, only the Prince was often forced to disguise his designs and so lay himself open to misconception. Freedom, justice, equality, liberty of the press, distribution of taxation—all the idols of the popular party were the Prince's idols, too, which at present he could only serve in secret; but at no distant date they were to take their true place as vital points of his great policy. It was a wonderful story, and not the least wonderful thing in it was the part played by the narrator. It seemed that the Prince was a hero, brave and gentle and sad: not the luxurious tyrant of common report, but just a sinning, suffering, blundering hero, ready to give up all, even life, for his country. When it was over, de Lusignan said simply, "I tried to kill you; what can I do?"
"Love me a little, Rohan; I love you, and I'd have tried to save you if I could."
"I'm so glad I missed!"
"And I am sorry;—no, I'm glad; it's selfish to be sorry. But perhaps your friends will yet set me at peace."
"Monseigneur—!"
"You do not like that? You see, they do not know; they hate me."
Rohan's eyes dilated with horror. "I will tell them not to shoot you!" he cried.
"And you think they will obey you?"
Knowing that they were not at all likely to obey him, Rohan shuddered, and sank back. "But you will protect yourself, sire?" he pleaded.
"Oh yes, I will do all I can," said the Prince, smiling. "But I should be glad to die, Rohan."
"I cannot bear it, sire!"
"Hush! I do not ask you to tell me their names. We are both gentlemen; and one gentleman cannot ask another to betray his friends."
"Merci!" said Rohan. "You have shown me what I can do. Ah, you are generous, my Prince; but you forget it is for your country: you and your country are one."
"For my country—yes," said the Prince. "Poor little Rohan!"
"Hush!" said Rohan, smiling. "I give one brother to the other, my Prince. One was my brother, François. The rest—" he recited a list of half a dozen names. "I ask no terms," he said, "but this: may they die without torture? François is younger than I am, and delicate. I could not bear to see him on the rack."
"Does he know any secrets which you yourself cannot tell me?"
"Some, no doubt, since I have been in prison; but—" the dark eyes pleaded for mercy.
"If I were to promise more than that? If I were to give you their lives?"
Rohan caught his hand and kissed it; his face was illuminated.
"They shall swear fidelity, that is all. Those who will not swear must lie in prison for a while; but François will swear, I think. Will he not?"
"He will adore you, Monseigneur—as I do."
"Will he? How young you are, child! And you have beauty, also. Oh! never you be too clever, Rohan, or you'll pay for it! I sometimes think that there is no need of hell to punish Mefistofele: his reward is worked out in the fruit of his own acts."
He stood up. Rohan lay still and
