of death formulated themselves
in her mind, than with brilliant swiftness, a new train of ideas began
to take root.

What if matters were not so hopeless after all?

Already her mind had flown instinctively to thoughts of escape. Had she
the right to despair? She, the wife and intimate companion of the man
who had astonished the world with his daring, his prowess, his amazing
good luck, she to imagine for a moment that in this all-supreme moment
of adventurous life the Scarlet Pimpernel would fail!

Was not English society peopled with men, women and children whom his
ingenuity had rescued from plights quite as seemingly hopeless as her
own, and would not all the resources of that inventive brain be brought
to bear upon this rescue which touched him nearer and more deeply than
any which he had attempted hitherto.

Now Marguerite was chiding herself for her doubts and for her fears.
Already she remembered that amongst the crowd on the landing stage
she had perceived a figure--unusually tall--following in the wake of
Chauvelin and his companions. Awakened hope had already assured her that
she had not been mistaken, that Percy, contrary to her own surmises,
had reached Boulogne last night: he always acted so differently to what
anyone might expect, that it was quite possible that he had crossed over
in the packet-boat after all unbeknown to Marguerite as well as to his
enemies.

Oh yes! the more she thought about it all, the more sure was she that
Percy was already in Boulogne, and that he knew of her capture and her
danger.

What right had she to doubt even for a moment that he would know how to
reach her, how--when the time came--to save himself and her?

A warm glow began to fill her veins, she felt excited and alert,
absolutely unconscious now of pain or fatigue, in this radiant joy of
reawakened hope.

She raised herself slightly, leaning on her elbow: she was still very
weak and the slight movement had made her giddy, but soon she would
be strong and well... she must be strong and well and ready to do his
bidding when the time for escape would have come.

"Ah! you are better, my child, I see..." said that quaint, tremulous
voice again, with its soft sing-song accent, "but you must not be so
venturesome, you know. The physician said that you had received a cruel
blow. The brain has been rudely shaken... and you must lie quite still
all to-day, or your poor little head will begin to ache again."

Margueri