the hands of those
curs."

She looked on her loyal friend with tear-dimmed eyes through which shone
boundless gratitude and heart-broken sorrow.

He had spoken of a fortnight! It was ten days since she had seen Percy.
It had then seemed as if death had already marked him with its grim
sign. Since then she had tried to shut away from her mind the terrible
visions which her anguish constantly conjured up before her of his
growing weakness, of the gradual impairing of that brilliant intellect,
the gradual exhaustion of that mighty physical strength.

"God bless you, Sir Andrew, for your enthusiasm and for your trust," she
said with a sad little smile; "but for you I should long ago have
lost all courage, and these last ten days--what a cycle of misery they
represent--would have been maddening but for your help and your loyalty.
God knows I would have courage for everything in life, for everything
save one, but just that, his death; that would be beyond my
strength--neither reason nor body could stand it. Therefore, I am so
afraid, Sir Andrew," she added piteously.

"Of what, Lady Blakeney?"

"That when he knows that I too am to go as hostage, as Armand says in
his letter, that my life is to be guarantee his, I am afraid that he
will draw back--that he will--my God!" she cried with sudden fervour,
"tell me what to do!"

"Shall we open the packet?" asked Ffoulkes gently, "and then just make
up our minds to act exactly as Blakeney has enjoined us to do, neither
more nor less, but just word for word, deed for deed, and I believe that
that will be right--whatever may betide--in the end."

Once more his quiet strength, his earnestness and his faith comforted
her. She dried her eyes and broke open the seal. There were two separate
letters in the packet, one unaddressed, obviously intended for her and
Ffoulkes, the other was addressed to M. le baron Jean de Batz, 15, Rue
St. Jean de Latran a Paris.

"A letter addressed to that awful Baron de Batz," said Marguerite,
looking with puzzled eyes on the paper as she turned it over and over in
her hand, "to that bombastic windbag! I know him and his ways well! What
can Percy have to say to him?"

Sir Andrew too looked puzzled. But neither of them had the mind to waste
time in useless speculations. Marguerite unfolded the letter which was
intended for her, and after a final look on her friend, whose kind face
was quivering with excitement, she began slowly to read aloud: