amid it all, with the flower of the
world beside me at this table, I remembered my mother's words before I
bade her good-bye and set sail from Glasgow for Virginia.

"Keep it in mind, Robert," she said, "that an honest love is the thing
to hold you honest with yourself. 'Tis to be lived for, and fought for,
and died for. Ay, be honest in your loves. Be true."

And there I took an oath, my hand clenched beneath the table, that Alixe
should be my wife if better days came; when I was done with citadel and
trial and captivity, if that might be.

The evening was well forward when Doltaire, rising from his seat in the
drawing-room, bowed to me, and said, "If it pleases you, monsieur?"

I rose also, and prepared to go. There was little talk, yet we all kept
up a play of cheerfulness. When I came to take the Seigneur's hand,
Doltaire was a distance off, talking to Madame. "Moray," said the
Seigneur quickly and quietly, "trials portend for both of us." He nodded
towards Doltaire.

"But we shall come safe through," said I.

"Be of good courage, and adieu," he answered, as Doltaire turned towards
us.

My last words were to Alixe. The great moment of my life was come. If I
could but say one thing to her out of earshot, I would stake all on the
hazard. She was standing beside a cabinet, very still, a strange glow in
her eyes, a new, fine firmness at the lips. I felt I dared not look as
I would; I feared there was no chance now to speak what I would. But
I came slowly up the room with her mother. As we did so, Doltaire
exclaimed and started to the window, and the Seigneur and Madame
followed. A red light was showing on the panes.

I caught Alixe's eye, and held it, coming quickly to her. All backs were
on us. I took her hand and pressed it to my lips suddenly. She gave a
little gasp, and I saw her bosom heave.

"I am going from prison to prison," said I, "and I leave a loved jailer
behind."

She understood. "Your jailer goes also," she answered, with a sad smile.

"I love you! I love you!" I urged.

She was very pale. "Oh, Robert!" she whispered timidly; and then, "I
will be brave, I will help you, and I will not forget. God guard you."

That was all, for Doltaire turned to me then and said, "They've made of
La Friponne a torch to light you to the citadel, monsieur."

A moment afterwards we were outside in the keen October air, a squad
of soldiers attending, our faces towards the citadel heights. I looked
back, doff