his station."

"I covet nothing beyond my station," said the young man, with an
assurance of manner which for the second time made the bishop of Vannes
tremble.

He was silent. But to look at the kindling eye, the knitted brow, and
the reflective attitude of the captive, it was evident that he expected
something more than silence, - a silence which Aramis now broke. "You
lied the first time I saw you," said he.

"Lied!" cried the young man, starting up on his couch, with such a tone
in his voice, and such a lightning in his eyes, that Aramis recoiled, in
spite of himself.

"I _should_ say," returned Aramis, bowing, "you concealed from me what
you knew of your infancy."

"A man's secrets are his own, monsieur," retorted the prisoner, "and not
at the mercy of the first chance-comer."

"True," said Aramis, bowing still lower than before, "'tis true; pardon
me, but to-day do I still occupy the place of a chance-comer? I beseech
you to reply, monseigneur."

This title slightly disturbed the prisoner; but nevertheless he did not
appear astonished that it was given him. "I do not know you, monsieur,"
said he.

"Oh, but if I dared, I would take your hand and kiss it!"