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HIS MAJESTY DIES—TO-MORROW "I speak truth, sir, as I believe it. But I can't expect you to take my word against the Countess's. I have too much respect for Madame la Comtesse to ask that."

Again he bent down towards the King; the King looked up at him; Stenovics's simile came back into the mind. In a low, soothing tone Lepage made his throw—his last suggestion. "Madame la Comtesse is of great piety. If Madame la Comtesse will take a solemn oath—well, then I'm content! I'll say I was mistaken—honest, I declare, sir, but mistaken."

Stenovics raised his head with a sharp jerk. Stafnitz smiled scornfully; he was thinking that Lepage was not, after all, a very resourceful fellow. An oath! Great Heavens! Oaths were in the day's work when you put your hand to affairs like this. But here Stenovics was wiser—and Lepage was shrewder. Stafnitz generalized from an experience rather one-sided; the other two knew the special case. When oaths were mentioned—solemn oaths— Stenovics scented danger.

The King knew his wife, too; and he was profoundly affected, convulsed to the depths of his mind. The thing sounded true—it had a horrible sound of truth. He craved the Countess's denial, solemn as it could be framed. That would restore the confidence which was crumbling from beneath his tormented, bewildered mind.

"Can anybody object to that," he asked slowly, "if I say it will relieve my mind?" He smiled apologetically. "I'm a sick man, you know. If it will relieve a sick man's mind, banish a sick man's fancies? If I shall sleep a little better—and old Lepage here be ashamed of himself?"

None of them dared to object. None could