for me!"

She was on her knees to me now, her arms clasping my boots, her
eyes raised in entreaty - God, what entreaty! - to my own.

"Rise, mademoiselle, I beseech you," I said, with a quiet I was far
from feeling. "There is no need for this. Let us be calm. The
danger to your father is not so imminent. We may have some days yet
--three or four, perhaps."

I lifted her gently and led her to a chair. I was hard put to it
not to hold her supported in my arms. But I might not cull that
advantage from her distress. A singular niceness, you will say,
perhaps, as in your scorn you laugh at me. Perhaps you are right
to laugh - yet are you not altogether right.

"You will go to Toulouse, monsieur?" she begged.

I took a turn in the room, then halting before her "Yes," I answered,
"I will go."

The gratitude that leapt to her eyes smote me hard, for my sentence
was unfinished.

"I will go," I continued quickly, "when you shall have promised to
become my wife."

The joy passed from her face. She glanced at me a moment as if
without understanding.