He stopped and shrugged his shoulders, and she stood before him
helpless, her hand raised toward him in entreaty. For a moment my father
glanced away.

"You couldn't! Oh, you couldn't!" she began. "For God's sake, Monsieur,
think what you are doing. I--we all trusted you, depended on your help.
We thought you were with us. We---"

Her voice choked in a sob, and she sank into a chair, her face buried in
her hands. My father looked at her, and took a pinch of snuff.

"Indeed," he said, "I am almost sorry, but it is the game, Mademoiselle.
We each have our little square on the chess board. I regret that mine is
a black one. A while ago I was a pawn, paid by your family. Then it
seemed to me expedient to do as you dictated--to take you out of France
to safety, to deliver both you and a certain pacer to your brother's
care. But that was a while ago. I am approaching the king row now.
Forgive me, if things seem different--and rest assured, Mademoiselle,
that you, at least, are in sate hands as long as you obey my directions."

He made this last statement with a benign complacency, and once more
busied himself with his nails. I took a step toward him, and he looked
up, as though to receive my congratulations.

"So you leave us, my son," he said briskly. "I fear you will meet with
trouble before you pass the lane. But you seem surprisingly able to look
out for yourself. Brutus will help you to saddle."

"You are mistaken," I said. "I am not leaving."