She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was wafted against his cheek; her eyes, glowing with tears, maddened him, the music in her voice sent fire through his veins. But he would not yield to the magic charm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful figure, round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to hover playfully.
“Nay, Madame, it is no mask,” he said icily; “I swore to you…once, that my life was yours. For months now it has been plaything…it has served its purpose.”
But now she knew that that very coldness was a mask. The trouble, the sorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came back to her mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this man who loved her, would help her to bear the burden.
“Sir Percy,” she said impulsively, “Heaven knows you have been at pains to make the task, which I had set to myself, terribly difficult to accomplish. You spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it that, if you will. I wished to speak to you…because…because I was in trouble…and had need…of your sympathy.”
“It is yours to command, Madame.”
“How cold you are!” she sighed. “Faith! I can scarce believe that but a few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I come to you…with a half-broken heart…and…and…”
“I pray you, Madame,” he said, whilst his voice shook almost as much as hers, “in what way can I serve you?”
“Percy!—Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his …rash, impetuous, as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, has fallen into the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly compromised…to- morrow, perhaps he will be arrested…after that the guillotine…unless…unless…oh! it is horrible!” …she said, with a sudden wail of anguish, as all the events of the past night came rushing back to her mind, “horrible!…and you do not understand…you cannot…and I have no one to whom I can turn…for help…or even for sympathy…”
Tears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the awful uncertainty of Armand’s fate overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready to fall, and leaning against the stone balustrade, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.
At first mention of Armand St. Just’s name and of the peril in which he stood, Sir Percy’s face had become a shade more pale; and the look of determination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched her, as her delicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her until unconsciously his face softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten in his eyes.
“And so,” he said with bitter sarcasm, “the murderous dog of the revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it? … Begad, Madame,” he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob hysterically, “will you dry your tears?…I never could bear to see a pretty woman cry, and I…”
Instinctively, with sudden overmastering passion, at sight of her helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next, would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil with his very life, his very heart’s blood…But pride had the better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with a tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently,—
“Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I may have the honour to serve you?”
She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her tear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he kissed with the same punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite’s fingers, this