to be too likely, the
argument too reasonable, as men reasoned then; strange and foolish as
their reasoning seems to us now. But what could he do. What? He who sat
there alone with her, a prisoner with her, witness to her agony, scalded
by her tears, tortured by her anguish, burning with pity, sorrow,
indignation--what could he do to help her or save her?

He had wild thoughts, but none of them effectual; the old thoughts of
defending the house, or of escaping by night over the town wall; and
some new ones. He weighed the possibility of Madame Royaume's death
before the arrest; surely, then, he could save the girl, and they two,
young, active and of ordinary aspect, might escape some whither? Again,
he thought of appealing to Beza, the aged divine, whom Geneva revered
and Calvinism placed second only to Calvin. He was a Frenchman, a man of
culture and of noble birth; he might stand above the common
superstition, he might listen, discern, defend. But, alas, he was so old
as to be bed-ridden and almost childish. It was improbable, nay, it was
most unlikely, that he could be induced to interfere.

All these thoughts Anne drove out of his head by begging him, in moving
terms of self-reproach, to forgive her her weakness. She had regained
her composure as abruptly, if not as completely, as she had lost it; and
would have had him believe that the passion he had witnessed was less
deep than it seemed, and rather a womanish need of tears than a proof of
suffering. A minute later she was quietly preparing the evening meal,
while he, with a sick heart, raised the shutters and lighted the lamp.
As he looked up from the latter task, he found her eyes fixed upon him,
with a peculiar intentness: and for a while afterwards he remarked that
she wore an absent air. But she said nothing, and by-and-by, promising
to return before bed-time, she went upstairs to her mother.

The nights were at their longest, and the two had closed and lighted
before five. Outside the cold stillness of a winter night and a freezing
sky settled down on Geneva; within, Claude sat with sad eyes fixed on
the smouldering fire. What could he do? What could he do? Wait and see
her innocence outraged, her tenderness racked, her gentle body given up
to unspeakable torments? The collapse which he had witnessed gave him as
it were a foretaste, a bitter savour of the trials to come. It did not
seem to him that he could bear even the anticipation of them. He rose,
he s