He followed to the door. "You will not need to use force with me,
monsieur," he said soberly. "If you insist on taking me, I shall
follow your directions, and use what wit I can. But I cannot thank
you, for I cannot feel grateful. You give under protest, and I accept
in the same way. It is a forced companionship. I do not wish to die;
but, after all, it will soon be over, and life has not been sweet. I
would rather risk what meets me here than take help from you, now that
I see you give it grudgingly."

This chilled me, and excuses pressed hot on my tongue. Yet it was
unwise to protest. Why should I wish his gratitude? It would hamper
us both. I had no desire to bind him to me with obligations. I felt
shame for my coldness; but, for once, my head ruled, and I let the
situation stand.

"You are a brave man, monsieur," I said inconsequently. "I know that
you will bear your share to-night."

He laid his hand on the door, and searched me with his sad eyes. "One
last word," he said, "and then I shall bury this for aye. Monsieur, if
I bring you misfortune, I ask you to remember--to remember from now
on--that you took me against my will."

For all my impatience, I had some effort not to smile. He would be a
burden, he might be a nuisance, but he could hardly be a misfortune.
He had a weighty sense of his importance, to use so large a term. But
I would not ridicule him. "I promise," I said.

He held out his hand. "Say that again with your hand in mine. Promise
me that, whatever disaster I bring you, you will remember that I came