perform; it returned with the traces of the crime; it spoke to the guilty author of that crime, with the frank and unreserved language which an accomplice never fears to use in the company of his companion in guilt; for it spoke the truth. Philippe bent over the bed, and perceived a pocket-handkerchief lying on it, which was still damp from the cold sweat which had poured from Louis XIV.’s face. This sweat-bestained handkerchief terrified Philippe, as the gore of Abel frightened Cain.

“I am face to face with my destiny,” said Philippe, his eyes on fire, and his face a livid white. “Is it likely to be more terrifying than my captivity has been sad and gloomy?

Though I am compelled to follow out, at every moment, the sovereign power and authority I have usurped,