beg of you, while it is possible. Every moment you are here, every moment you spend in this house, I shudder.”
“You need not fear for me,” he said, in a tone of bravado. He did not understand.
“I fear for myself!” she answered. And then, wringing her hands, divided between her love for him and her fear for herself, “Oh, forgive me!” she said. “You do not know that he has promised to spare me, if he cannot produce you, and—and—a minister? He has granted me that; but I thought when you entered that he had gone back on his word, and sent a priest, and it maddened me! I could not bear to think that I had gained nothing. Now you understand, and you will pardon me, Monsieur? If he cannot produce you I am saved. Go then, leave me, I beg, without a moment’s delay.”
He laughed derisively as he turned back his cowl and squared his shoulders.
“All that is over!” he said, “over and done with, sweet! M. de Tavannes is at this moment a prisoner in the Arsenal. On my way hither I fell in with M. de Biron, and he told me. The Grand Master, who would have had me join his company, had been all night at Marshal Tavannes’ hotel, where he had been detained longer than he expected. He stood pledged to release Count Hannibal on his return, but at my request he consented to hold him one hour, and to do also a little thing for me.”
The glow of hope which had transfigured her face faded slowly.
“It will not help,” she said, “if he find you here.”
“He will not! Nor you!”
“How, Monsieur?”
“In a few minutes,” he explained—he could not hide his exultation, “a message will come from the Arsenal in the name of Tavannes, bidding the monk he sent to you bring you to him. A spoken message, corroborated by
