her, as her
delicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her until unconsciously his
face softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten in
his eyes.

"And so," he said with bitter sarcasm, "the murderous dog of the
revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it? . . . Begad,
Madame," he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob
hysterically, "will you dry your tears? . . . I never could bear to see a
pretty woman cry, and I . . ."

Instinctively, with sudden overmastering passion at the sight of her
helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next,
would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil
with his very life, his very heart's blood. . . . But pride had the
better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with a
tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently,--

"Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I may have the
honour to serve you?"

She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her
tear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he
kissed with the same punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite's fingers,
this time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer than was
absolutely necessary, and this was because she had felt that his hand
trembled perceptibly and was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold
as marble.

"Can you do aught for Armand?" she said sweetly and simply. "You have so
much influence at court . . . so many friends . . ."

"Nay, Madame, should you not seek the influence of your French friend,
M. Chauvelin? His extends, if I mistake not, even as far as the
Republican Government of France."

"I cannot ask him, Percy. . . . Oh! I wish I dared to tell you . . . but
. . . but . . . he has put a price on my brother's head, which . . ."

She would have given worlds if she had felt the courage then to tell him
everything . . . all she had done that night--how she had suffered and
how her hand had been forced. But she dared not give way to that impulse
. . . not now, when she was just beginning to feel that he still loved
her, when she hoped that she could win him back. She dared not make
another confession to him. After all, he might not understand; he might
not sympathise with her struggles and temptation. His love still dormant
might sleep the sleep of death.

Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole attitude wa