I let the moments slip. The east was brightening, and in an hour it
would be dawn. I knew we needed rest. I rose, and, standing behind
the woman, bent over her.

"Mademoiselle Starling," I whispered, "tomorrow, at this time, you will
be Madame Montlivet." She did not stir, and I laid my hand on her
shoulder where it rose slim and sinewy as a boy's from the low neck of
her squaw's dress. I bent lower. "You strange woman," I went on,
marveling at her calm. "You strange woman, with the justice of a man
and the tempers of a child. Have you a woman's heart, I wonder? I do
not talk to you of love, but it may be that it will come to us. I will
try to be good to you, Mary Starling. Carry that promise with you when
I say good-night."

And then she trembled. "Wait, wait, monsieur! There is one word
first. I have tried--I have tried to say it."

I knelt beside her. "What would you say to me, mademoiselle?"

But she turned away. "Monsieur, monsieur! I will marry you, yes. But
it is to save your hopes,--your future. We have--we have no love.
Monsieur, will you not hold me as your guest, your sister? It is I who
would kneel to you, monsieur."

I pushed her down. "Sit still," I commanded. I turned my back to her,
for I had no speech. She did not plead, but I could feel her tremble.
I forced words out of me.

"You are a Protestant?"