Drink, drink, drink!" Wine bubbled and ran about the table; candles sputtered and died; still the sword rose and fell.

Then came silence, broken only by heavy breathing and the ticking of the clock in the salon.

The Chevalier sat crouched in his chair, his arm and sword resting on the table where they had at length fallen.
The marquis recovered from his stupor.

He hurried toward the dining-hall, fumbling his lips, mumbling incoherent sentences.

He came to a stand on the threshold.
"Blundering fool," he cried passionately, "what have you said and done ?" At the sound of his father's voice, the Chevalier's rage returned; but it was a cold rage, actionless.
"What have I done?
I have written it large, Monsieur, that I am only your poor bastard.