"it is best. He
never saw my face on that night--the mask did not fall from it until
his back was turned--I remember it all well--Raoul's cry for
help--this one's determination--my blow. Ah, the blow! It should never
have been struck--yet--yet--otherwise he had slain Raoul. And," she
continued rapidly, for she knew that the man would be here in a
moment, "and I may find out if he knows who and what he is. If he
guesses also the fate in store for him."

Rapidly she went to a cabinet in this great _salon_, took out from it
a little dagger, and dropped it in the folds of her dress, muttering:
"It may be needed again. He may recognise me even after so long and in
such different surroundings," and then turned and faced the door at
which a knocking was now heard. A moment later St. Georges was in the
room.

Pale from the loss of blood he had sustained both from his fall and at
the surgeon's hands, and looking much worn by all he had suffered of
late--to say nothing of the two years of slavery he had undergone--he
still presented a figure that, to an ordinary woman, would have been
interesting and have earned her sympathy. His long hair was now
brushed carefully and fell in graceful folds behind; his face, if worn
and sad, was as handsome as it had ever been. Even his travel-stained
garments, now carefully cleaned and brushed, were not unbecoming to
him. And she, regarding him fixedly, felt at last a spark of
compunction rise in her bosom for all that she had done against him.
Yet it must be stifled, she knew. That very morning's work--a letter
to the commandant at the castle--had been sufficient to make all
regret unavailing now.

"Madame," he said, bending low before her with the courtesy of the
period, "I could not leave your house without desiring first to thank
you for the protection you have afforded me. And, poor and unknown as
I am, I yet beseech you to believe that my gratitude is very great.
You succoured me in my hour of need, madame; for that succour let me
thank you." And stooping his knee he courteously endeavoured to take
her hand.

But--none are all evil--even Nathalie de Louvigny would not suffer
that. Drawing back from him, she exclaimed instead: "Sir, you have
nothing to thank me for. I--I--what I did I should have done to any
whom I had found as you were."

He raised his eyes and looked at her. A chord or tone in her voice
seemed to recall something in the past, and she standing there divined
that