who
would revel in their triumph, who would crush him, humiliate him, insult
him--ye gods alive! even torture him, perhaps--that they might break the
indomitable spirit that would mock them even on the threshold of death.

Surely, surely God would never allow such monstrous infamy as the
deliverance of the noble soaring eagle into the hands of those preying
jackals! Marguerite--though her heart ached beyond what human nature
could endure, though her anguish on her husband's account was doubled by
that which she felt for her brother--could not bring herself to give
up all hope. Sir Andrew said it rightly; while there was life there
was hope. While there was life in those vigorous limbs, spirit in that
daring mind, how could puny, rampant beasts gain the better of the
immortal soul? As for Armand--why, if Percy were free she would have no
cause to fear for Armand.

She sighed a sigh of deep, of passionate regret and longing. If she
could only see her husband; if she could only look for one second into
those laughing, lazy eyes, wherein she alone knew how to fathom the
infinity of passion that lay within their depths; if she could but once
feel his--ardent kiss on her lips, she could more easily endure this
agonising suspense, and wait confidently and courageously for the issue.

She turned away from the window, for the night was getting bitterly
cold. From the tower of St. Germain l'Auxerrois the clock slowly struck
eight. Even as the last sound of the historic bell died away in the
distance she heard a timid knocking at the door.

"Enter!" she called unthinkingly.

She thought it was her landlady, come up with more wood, mayhap, for
the fire, so she did not turn to the door when she heard it being slowly
opened, then closed again, and presently a soft tread on the threadbare
carpet.

"May I crave your kind attention, Lady Blakeney?" said a harsh voice,
subdued to tones of ordinary courtesy.

She quickly repressed a cry of terror. How well she knew that voice!
When last she heard it it was at Boulogne, dictating that infamous
letter--the weapon wherewith Percy had so effectually foiled his enemy.
She turned and faced the man who was her bitterest foe--hers in the
person of the man she loved.

"Chauvelin!" she gasped.

"Himself at your service, dear lady," he said simply.

He stood in the full light of the lamp, his trim, small figure boldly
cut out against the dark wall beyond. He wore the usual sable-coloured