take your Majesty’s will to Biron, and let him see the Grand Master face to face, and bring him to reason. Or, if he will not, I will! Let that be the test!”
“Ay, ay!” cried Marshal de Tavannes, “you say well, brother! Let him!”
“And if he will not, I will!” Tavannes repeated. “Let that be the test, sire.”
The King wheeled suddenly to Father Pezelay. “You hear, father?” he said. “What say you?”
The priest’s face grew sallow, and more sallow. He knew that the walls of the Arsenal sheltered men whose hands no convention and no order of Biron’s would keep from his throat, were the grim gate and frowning culverins once passed; men who had seen their women and children, their wives and sisters immolated at his word, and now asked naught but to stand face to face and eye to eye with him and tear him limb from limb before they died! The challenge, therefore, was one-sided and unfair; but for that very reason it shook him. The astuteness of the man who, taken by surprise, had conceived this snare filled him with dread. He dared not accept, and he scarcely dared to refuse the offer. And meantime the eyes of the courtiers, who grinned in their beards, were on him. At length he spoke, but it was in a voice which had lost its boldness and assurance.
“It is not for me to clear myself,” he cried, shrill and violent, “but for those who are accused, for those who have belied the King’s word, and set at nought his Christian orders. For you, Count Hannibal, heretic, or no better than heretic, it is easy to say ‘I go.’ For you go but to your own, and your own will receive you!”
“Then you will not go?” with a jeer.
“At your command? No!” the priest shrieked with passion. “His Majesty knows whether I serve him.”
“I know,” Charles cried, stamping his foot in a fury,
