The fresh color of his cheeks and lips had yielded to a livid pallor, and his mouth quivered painfully as he asked in a low, hollow tone, "Louis dead, really dead ?" "Dead," replied the baron firmly, though sorrowfully.

"We were enemies, but Louis was a noble youth.

I mourn him with you." "Dead, William's favorite dead!" murmured the burgomaster as if in a dream.

Then, controlling himself by a violent effort, he said, firmly: "Pardon me, noble sir.

Time is flying.