of
my own personal honour. I would that I could explain; but I am afraid,"
I ended lamely.

"Afraid?" she echoed, now raising her eyes in wonder.

"Aye, afraid. Afraid of your contempt, of your scorn."

The wonder in her glance increased and asked a question that I could not
answer. I stretched forward, and caught one of the hands lying idle in
her lap.

"Roxalanne," I murmured very gently, and my tone, my touch, and the use
of her name drove her eyes for refuge behind their lids again. A flush
spread upon the ivory pallor of her face, to fade as swiftly, leaving it
very white. Her bosom rose and fell in agitation, and the little hand I
held trembled in my grasp. There was a moment's silence. Not that I
had need to think or choose my words. But there was a lump in my
throat--aye, I take no shame in confessing it, for this was the first
time that a good and true emotion had been vouchsafed me since the
Duchesse de Bourgogne had shattered my illusions ten years ago.

"Roxalanne," I resumed presently, when I was more master of myself, "we
have been good friends, you and I, since that night when I climbed for
shelter to your chamber, have we not?"

"But yes, monsieur," she faltered.

"Ten days ago it is. Think of it--no more than ten days. And it seems as
if I had been months at Lavedan, so well have we become acquainted.
In these ten days we have formed opinions of each other. But with this
difference, that whilst mine are right, yours are wrong. I have come to
know you for the sweetest, gentlest saint in all this world. Would to
God I had known you earlier! It might have been very different; I might
have been--I would have been--different, and I would not have done
what I have done. You have come to know me for an unfortunate but honest
gentleman. Such am I not. I am under false colours here, mademoiselle.
Unfortunate I may be--at least, of late I seem to have become so. Honest
I am not--I have not been. There, child, I can tell you no more. I
am too great a coward. But when later you shall come to hear the
truth--when, after I am gone, they may tell you a strange story touching
this fellow Lesperon who sought the hospitality of your father's
house--bethink you of my restraint in this hour; bethink you of my
departure. You will understand these things perhaps afterwards. But
bethink you of them, and you will unriddle them for yourself, perhaps.
Be merciful upon me then; judge me not over-harshly."

I paused, and