ave her father.
But for my own ends, I curbed the mood. I would use this as a cudgel to
shatter her obstinacy, and I prayed that God might forgive me if I did
aught that a gentleman should account unworthy. My need was urgent, my
love all-engrossing; winning her meant winning life and happiness, and
already I had sacrificed so much. Her cry rang still in my ears, "It
cannot be, it cannot be!"

I trampled my nascent tenderness underfoot, and in its room I set a
harshness that I did not feel--a harshness of defiance and menace.

"It can be, it will be, and, as God lives, it shall be, if you persist
in your unreasonable attitude."

"Monsieur, have mercy!"

"Yes, when you shall be pleased to show me the way to it by having mercy
upon me. If I have sinned, I have atoned. But that is a closed question
now; to reopen it were futile. Take heed of this, Roxalanne: there is
one thing--one only in all France can save your father."

"That is, monsieur?" she inquired breathlessly.

"My word against that of Saint-Eustache. My indication to His Majesty
that your father's treason is not to be accepted on the accusation of
Saint-Eustache. My information to the King of what I know touching this
gentleman."

"You will go, monsieur?" she implored me. "Oh, you will save him! Mon
Dieu, to think of the time that we have wasted here, you and I, whilst
he is being carried to the scaffold! Oh, I did not dream it was so
perilous with him! I was desolated by his arrest; I thought of some
months' imprisonment, perhaps. But that he should die--! Monsieur de
Bardelys, you will save him! Say that you will do this for me!"

She was on her knees to me now, her arms clasping my boots, her eyes
raised in entreaty--God, what entreaty!--to my own.

"Rise, mademoiselle, I beseech you," I said, with a quiet I was far from
feeling. "There is no need for this. Let us be calm. The danger to your
father is not so imminent. We may have some days yet--three or four,
perhaps."

I lifted her gently and led her to a chair. I was hard put to it not to
hold her supported in my arms. But I might not cull that advantage from
her distress. A singular niceness, you will say, perhaps, as in your
scorn you laugh at me. Perhaps you are right to laugh--yet are you not
altogether right.

"You will go to Toulouse, monsieur?" she begged.

I took a turn in the room, then halting before her "Yes," I answered, "I
will go."

The gratitude that leapt to her eyes smote