"But he is in your hands now. Will you not set him free? You know that
the charge against him is false--false. He is no spy. Oh, monsieur, you
and he have been enemies, but you know that he could not do a
dishonourable thing."

"Madame, my charges against him are true."

"I know what they are," she said earnestly, "but this strife is not
worthy of you, and it is shaming me. Monsieur, you know I speak truly.

"You called me Pierre a little while ago," he said; "will you not now?"

His voice was deliberate, every word hanging in its utterance. He had a
courteous smile, an apparent abandon of manner, but there was devilry
behind all, for here, for the first time, he saw this woman, fought for
and lost, in his presence with her husband, begging that husband's life
of him. Why had she called him Pierre? Was it because she knew it would
touch a tender corner of his heart? Should that be so--well, he would
wait.

"Will you listen to me?" she asked, in a low gentle voice.

"I love to hear you speak," was his reply, and he looked into her eyes
as he had boldly looked years before, but his gaze made hers drop. There
was revealed to her all that was in his mind.

"Then, hear me now," she said slowly. "There was a motherless young
girl. She had as fresh and cheerful a heart as any in the world. She
had not many playmates, but there was one young lad who shared her sports