rom which she had been reading; for the first time
since she had begun to speak she grew pale; knitting her black brows
and with downcast eyes she went on: "Monsieur de Puisaye says he asks
my pardon humbly on his knees for writing such tidings to me, bereaved
as I am of all I hold dear, but 'it is meet,' he says, 'that the
civilised world should know the deeds these followers of _liberty_ and
_enlightenment_ have wrought upon gallant men and highborn ladies,'
and I hold that he says well."

She flashed once more her black gaze round upon the men, who with
heads all turned towards her and forgetting their wine, hung upon her
words. "It is right that I should know, and you too! It is meet that
such deeds should be made known to the world: my sister was taken by
these men, but less fortunate than my husband she had life enough left
for torture--she too is dead now; M. de Puisaye adds: Thank God! And
that is all that I can say too--Thank God!"

There was a dead silence in the room as she ceased speaking, broken at
last, here and there, along the table by exclamations and groans and a
deep execration from Sir Thomas, which was echoed deep-mouthed by his
guests.

Adrian himself, the pacific, the philosopher, with both arms,
stretched out on the table, clenched his hands, and set his teeth and
gazed into space with murderous looks.

Then the clear young voice went on again:

"You, who have honoured mothers and wives of your own, and have young
sweethearts, or sisters or daughters--you English gentlemen who love
to see justice, how long will you allow such things to be done while
you have arms to strike? We are not beaten yet; there are French
hearts still left that will be up and doing so long as they have a
drop of blood to shed. Our gallant Bretons and Vendeens are uniting
once more, our emigres are collecting, but we want aid, brave English
friends, we want arms, money, soldiers. My task lies to my hand; the
sacred legacy of my dead I have accepted; is there any of you here who
will help the widow to maintain the fight?"

She had risen to her feet; the blood glowed on her cheek as she
concluded her appeal; a thousand stars danced in her eyes.

Old men and young they leapt up, with a roar; pressing round her,
pouring forth acclamations, asseverations and oaths--Would they help
her? By God--they would die for her--Never had the old rafters of
Pulwick rung to such enthusiasm.

And when with proud smiles and crimsone