Here was a predicament! Mistaking me for that miserable rebel I had succoured at Mirepoix, and whose letters I bore upon me that I might restore them to some one whose name he had failed to give me at the last moment, the Vicomte de Lavedan had poured the damning story of his treason into my ears.
What if I were now to enlighten him?
What if I were to tell him that I was not Lesperon--no rebel at all, in fact--but Marcel de Bardelys, the King's favourite?
That he would account me a spy I hardly thought; but assuredly he would see that my life must be a danger to his own; he must fear betrayal from me; and to protect himself he would be justified in taking extreme measures.

Rebels were not addicted to an excess of niceness in their methods, and it was more likely that I should rise no more from the luxurious bed on which his hospitality had laid me.

But even if I had exaggerated matters, and the Vicomte were not quite so bloodthirsty as was usual with his order, even if he chose to accept my promise that I would forget what he had said, he must nevertheless--in view of his indiscretion--demand my instant withdrawal from Lavedan.

And what, then, of my wager with Chatellerault?
Then, in thinking of my wager, I came to think of Roxalanne herself--that dainty, sweet-faced child into whose chamber I had penetrated on the previous night.

And would you believe it that I--the satiated, cynical, unbelieving Bardelys--experienced dismay at the very thought of leaving Lavedan for no other reason than because it involved seeing no more of that provincial damsel?
My unwillingness to be driven from her presence determined me to stay.
I had come to Lavedan as Lesperon, a fugitive rebel.