not desert me again, sir, will you?"

He vowed he would not, kissed her hand, looked into her eyes; then
melting to her, stammering, blundering, he named Madame St. Lo. She
stopped him.

"There is no need," she said, answering his look with kind eyes, and
refusing to hear his protestations. "In a fortnight will you not be my
husband? How should I distrust you? It was only that while she talked,
I waited--I waited; and--and that Madame St. Lo is Count Hannibal's
cousin. For a moment I was mad enough to dream that she held you on
purpose. You do not think it was so?"

"She!" he cried sharply; and he winced, as if the thought hurt him.
"Absurd! The truth is, Mademoiselle," he continued with a little heat,
"you are like so many of our people! You think a Catholic capable of the
worst."

"We have long thought so at Vrillac," she answered gravely.

"That's over now, if people would only understand. This wedding has put
an end to all that. But I'm harking back," he continued awkwardly; and
he stopped. "Instead, let me take you home."

"If you please. Carlat and the servants should be below."

He took her left hand in his right after the wont of the day, and with
his other hand touching his sword-hilt, he led her down the staircase,
that by a single turn reached the courtyard of the palace. Here a mob of
armed servants, of lacqueys, and footboys, some bearing torches, and some