long time in turning the key, and Jean could watch her face, the
more enthralling to the senses for the absence of any tokens of
disturbing intellectual effort. He groaned in grief and rage to
think how in another second the iron bars would be close between
her and him.

No, he would not have it so; he darted forward, seized her by
the hand, which he pressed in his own and kissed.

She gave a loud cry of terror, the cry of a frightened animal.
Jean was on his knees on the stone step, chafing the hand he
held against his teeth, forcing the rings into the flesh of his
lips.

A servant, a lady's maid, came running up, holding a candle that
had blown out.

"What is all this?" she asked breathlessly.

Jean released the hand, which bore the mark of his violence in
a drop of blood, and got to his feet.

Gabrielle, panting and holding the wounded hand against her bosom,
leant against the gate for support.

"I want to speak to you; I must," cried Jean.

"Here's pretty manners!" shrilled the maid-servant. "Go your
ways," and she pointed with her candlestick first to one end,
then to the other of the street.