How can I--how can any of us--afford
to turn our backs upon a loyal friend? To-day too, of all days, when
that awful enemy is once more at our gates! Oh!" she added, clasping her
hands together with a sudden gesture of passionate entreaty, "you are
English, Sir--a friend of all those gallant gentlemen who saved my dear
father and his family from those awful revolutionaries--you will be
loyal to us, will you not? The English hate Bonaparte as much as we do!
you hate him too, do you not? you will do all you can to help my poor
father through this awful crisis? You will, won't you?" she pleaded.

"Have I not already offered you my humble services, Mademoiselle?" he
rejoined earnestly.

Indeed this was a very serious ordeal for quiet, self-contained Bobby
Clyffurde--an Englishman, remember--with all an Englishman's shyness of
emotion, all an Englishman's contempt of any display of sentiment. Here
was this beautiful girl--whom he loved with all the passionate ardour of
his virile, manly temperament--sitting almost at his feet, he looking
down upon her fair head, with its wealth of golden curls, and into her
blue eyes which were full of tears.

Who shall blame him if just then a desperate longing seized him to throw
all prudence, all dignity and honour to the winds and to clasp this
exquisite woman for one brief and happy moment in his arms--to forget
the world, her position and his--to risk disgrace and betray
hospitality, for the sake of one kiss upon her lips? The temptation was
so fierce--indeed for one short second it was all but irresistible--that
something of the battle which was raging within his soul became
outwardly visible, and in the girl's tear-dimmed eyes there crept a
quick look of alarm--so strange, so ununderstandable was his glance, the
rigidity of his attitude--as if every muscle had become taut and every
nerve strained to snapping point, while his face looked hard and lined,
almost as if he were fighting physical pain.

V

Thus a few seconds went by in absolute silence--while the great gilt
clock upon its carved bracket ticked on with stolid relentlessness,
marking another minute--and yet another--of this hour which was so full
of portent for the destinies of France. Clyffurde would gladly have
bartered the future years of his life for the power to stay the hand of
Time just now--for the power to remain just like this, standing before
this beautiful woman whom he loved, feeling that at any moment he