The Huguenot gave a gesture of horror.

"Well, well, I meant no harm. And where is this fair maid who has been
the cause of the broil?"

"Where is Adele, Pierre?" asked the merchant of the old servant, who had
carried in the silver tray with a squat flask and tinted Venetian
glasses.

"I locked her in my room, master."

"And where is she now?"

"I am here, father." The young girl sprang into the room, and threw her
arms round the old merchant's neck. "Oh, I trust these wicked men have
not hurt you, love!"

"No, no, dear child; none of us have been hurt, thanks to his Highness
the Prince of Conde here."

Adele raised her eyes, and quickly drooped them again before the keen
questioning gaze of the old soldier. "May God reward your Highness!"
she stammered. In her confusion the blood rushed to her face, which was
perfect in feature and expression. With her sweet delicate contour, her
large gray eyes, and the sweep of the lustrous hair, setting off with
its rich tint the little shell-like ears and the alabaster whiteness of
the neck and throat, even Conde, who had seen all the beauties of three
courts and of sixty years defile before him, stood staring in admiration
at the Huguenot maiden.