standing beside the table,
with one dainty hand resting against the back of the chair, her whole
graceful figure bent forward as if in an agony of ardent expectation.

Never for an instant, in that supreme moment when his precious life was
at stake, did she waver in courage or presence of mind. From the moment
that he jumped up and took the candlesticks in his hands, her sixth
sense showed her as in a flash what he meant to do and how he would wish
her to act.

When the room was plunged in darkness she stood absolutely still;
when she heard the scuffle on the floor she never trembled, for her
passionate heart had already told her that he never meant to deliver
that infamous letter into his enemies' hands. Then, when there was the
general scramble, when the soldiers rushed away, when the room became
empty and Chauvelin alone remained, she shrank quietly into the darkest
corner of the room, hardly breathing, only waiting.... Waiting for a
sign from him!

She could not see him, but she felt the beloved presence there,
somewhere close to her, and she knew that he would wish her to wait....
She watched him silently... ready to help if he called... equally ready
to remain still and to wait.

Only when the helpless body of her deadly enemy was well out of the
way did she come from out the darkness, and now she stood with the full
light of the lamp illumining her ruddy golden hair, the delicate blush
on her cheek, the flame of love dancing in her glorious eyes.

Thus he saw her as he re-entered the room, and for one second he paused
at the door, for the joy of seeing her there seemed greater than he
could bear.

Forgotten was the agony of mind which he had endured, the humiliations
and the dangers which still threatened: he only remembered that she
loved him and that he worshipped her.

The next moment she lay clasped in his arms. All was still around
them, save for the gentle patter-patter of the rain on the trees of the
ramparts: and from very far away the echo of laughter and music from the
distant revellers.

And then the cry of the sea-mew thrice repeated from just beneath the
window.

Blakeney and Marguerite awoke from their brief dream: once more the
passionate lover gave place to the man of action.

"'Tis Tony, an I mistake not," he said hurriedly, as with loving fingers
still slightly trembling with suppressed passion, he readjusted the hood
over her head.

"Lord Tony?" she murmured.

"Aye! with Hasti