"But yes - perfectly."

"Pardieu, you do not. I will tell you. You are sending your father
to the scaffold."

She turned livid, her step faltered, and she leant against the frame
of the doorway for support. Then she stared at me, wide-eyed in
horror.

"That is not true," she pleaded, yet without conviction. "He is not
in danger of his life. They can prove nothing against him. Monsieur
de Saint-Eustache could find no evidence here - nothing."

"Yet there is Monsieur de Saint-Eustache's word; there is the fact
--the significant fact - that your father did not take up arms for
the King, to afford the Chevalier's accusation some measure of
corroboration. At Toulouse in these times they are not particular.
Remember how it had fared with me but for the King's timely arrival."

That smote home. The last shred of her strength fell from her. A
great sob shook her, then covering her face with her hands "Mother
in heaven, have pity on me!" she cried. "Oh, it cannot be, it cannot
be!"

Her distress touched me sorely. I would have consoled her, I would
have bidden her have no fear, assuring her that I would save her
father. But for my own ends, I curbed the mood. I would use this
as a cudgel to shatter her obstinacy, and I prayed that God might
forgive me if I did aught that a gentleman should account unworthy.
My need was urgent, my love all-engrossing; winning her meant