had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the
dainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful
figure, round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to
hover playfully.

"Nay, Madame, it is no mask," he said icily; "I swore to you . . . once,
that my life was yours. For months now it has been your plaything . . .
it has served its purpose."

But now she knew that the very coldness was a mask. The trouble, the
sorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came back into her
mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this man
who loved her, would help her bear the burden.

"Sir Percy," she said impulsively, "Heaven knows you have been at pains
to make the task, which I had set to myself, difficult to accomplish.
You spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it that, if you will.
I wished to speak to you . . . because . . . because I was in trouble
. . . and had need . . . of your sympathy."

"It is yours to command, Madame."

"How cold you are!" she sighed. "Faith! I can scarce believe that but
a few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I
come to you . . . with a half-broken heart . . . and . . . and . . ."

"I pray you, Madame," he said, whilst his voice shook almost as much as
hers, "in what way can I serve you?"

"Percy!--Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his . . . rash,
impetuous, as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
has fallen into the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly compromised
. . . to-morrow, perhaps he will be arrested . . . after that the
guillotine . . . unless . . . oh! it is horrible!" . . . she said, with a
sudden wail of anguish, as all the events of the past night came rushing
back to her mind, "horrible! . . . and you do not understand . . . you
cannot . . . and I have no one to whom I can turn . . . for help . . . or
even for sympathy . . ."

Tears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the
awful uncertainty of Armand's fate overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready
to fall, and leaning against the tone balustrade, she buried her face in
her hands and sobbed bitterly.

At first mention of Armand St. Just's name and of the peril in which he
stood, Sir Percy's face had become a shade more pale; and the look of
determination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his
eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched