He had been so long expatriated, had loitered so long in the primrose path of daily sleep and nightly revel, had fallen so far, that he little realised how the fiery wheels of Death were spinning in France, or how black was the torment of her people.

His face turned scarlet as the thing came home to him now.

He dropped his head in his hand as if to listen more attentively, but it was in truth to hide his emotion.

When the names of Vaufontaine and de Tournay were mentioned, he gave a little start, then suddenly ruled himself to a strange stillness.

His face seemed presently to clear; he even smiled a little.