ucted bulwark, drew a
breviary from his pocket and having found a narrow ledge on one of
the chairs, on which he could sit, without much danger of bringing the
elaborate screen onto the top of his head, he soon became absorbed in
his orisons.

Marguerite watched him for a little while longer: he was evidently
endeavouring to make her think that he had become oblivious of her
presence, and his transparent little manoeuvers amused and puzzled her
not a little.

He looked so comical with his fussy and shy ways, yet withal so gentle
and so kindly that she felt completely reassured and quite calm.

She tried to raise herself still further and found the process
astonishingly easy. Her limbs still ached and the violent, intermittent
pain in her head certainly made her feel sick and giddy at times, but
otherwise she was not ill. She sat up on the paillasse, then put
her feet to the ground and presently walked up to the improvised
dressing-room and bathed her face and hands. The rest had done her good,
and she felt quite capable of co-ordinating her thoughts, of moving
about without too much pain, and of preparing herself both mentally and
physically for the grave events which she knew must be imminent.

While she busied herself with her toilet her thoughts dwelt on the one
all-absorbing theme: Percy was in Boulogne, he knew that she was here,
in prison, he would reach her without fail, in fact he might communicate
with her at any moment now, and had without a doubt already evolved a
plan of escape for her, more daring and ingenious than any which he had
conceived hitherto; therefore, she must be ready, and prepared for any
eventuality, she must be strong and eager, in no way despondent, for if
he were here, would he not chide her for her want of faith?

By the time she had smoothed her hair and tidied her dress, Marguerite
caught herself singing quite cheerfully to herself.

So full of buoyant hope was she.

Chapter XIX: The Strength of the Weak

"M. L'Abbe!..." said Marguerite gravely.

"Yes, mon enfant."

The old man looked up from his breviary, and saw Marguerite's great
earnest eyes fixed with obvious calm and trust upon him. She had
finished her toilet as well as she could, had shaken up and tidied the
paillasse, and was now sitting on the edge of it, her hands clasped
between her knees. There was something which still puzzled her, and
impatient and impulsive as she was, she had watched the abbe as he