The poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue, sorrow and emotion
had overmastered her rigid, aristocratic bearing. She was crying gently
to herself, whilst Suzanne ran up to her and tried to kiss away her
tears.

Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to interrupt the Comtesse
whilst she was speaking. There was no doubt that they felt deeply for
her; their very silence testified to that--but in every century, and
ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt
somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy. And so
the two young men said nothing, and busied themselves in trying to hide
their feelings, only succeeding in looking immeasurably sheepish.

"As for me, Monsieur," said Suzanne, suddenly, as she looked through a
wealth of brown curls across at Sir Andrew, "I trust you absolutely, and
I KNOW that you will bring my dear father safely to England, just as you
brought us to-day."

This was said with so much confidence, such unuttered hope and belief,
that it seemed as if by magic to dry the mother's eyes, and to bring a
smile upon everybody's lips.

"Nay! You shame me, Mademoiselle," replied Sir Andrew; "though my life
is at your service, I have been but a humble tool in the hands of our
great leader, who organised and effected your escape."

He had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence that Suzanne's eyes
fastened upon him in undisguised wonder.

"Your leader, Monsieur?" said the Comtesse, eagerly. "Ah! of course,