woman
of the devil who had already worked him so much ill, and might--nay,
would, if not thwarted--work so much more, he replied cautiously:
"'Considering all,' mademoiselle; you doubtless refer to----"

"Oh, monsieur," she said, "let there be no more cross purposes. I
know--I know as though I could see deep into your heart, beneath your
gorget, that--that--you couple us with my brother. And you know,"
while as she spoke she leaned forward so that her fair--yet, alas!
painted--face almost bent over his sleeve, and her clear, starlike
eyes gazed into his, "that he is your enemy; at least, you fear so."

"I know nothing," he replied, "except that all--all--in one case
suspicion in the other certainty--points to him. I know that when one,
whose part in the affair I cannot yet unravel, had my child"--he said
"my child" with a sob in his voice--"in his keeping, a vassal of De
Roquemaure's, clad in the russet livery of your house, and accompanied
by one of his master's lemans, slew him and stole her. I know that."

"One of his lemans!" she whispered, while over her face there crept a
blush deeper than the court-ordained paint--"one of his lemans! You
know that?"

"I know it," he replied. "Masked, too, as though, foul as she might
be, she still had some shame, dreaded to show her face in such
proceeding."

She seemed to be endeavouring to tame some emotion within her;
perhaps, as he thought, to prevent any sign of knowledge on her part
escaping from her by accident. Then she said, in a faint voice:

"Since you know that, you must know more. Oh, my God!" she exclaimed
suddenly--so suddenly that he started at her excitement. "I must
speak! Yet, Monsieur St. Georges, remember; it is the man's sister,
the child of the same father as himself, who speaks to you. Remember
that, I say, and listen. Though he stole your child, though his vassal
slew the man who had it in his keeping, though his _leman_--that I
should pronounce the word!--assisted that vassal, yet De Roquemaure
has not harmed it--will not harm it. Do you believe?"

"Tell me more. Where is it? It is mine, mine, mine!"

"Do you believe me, Monsieur St. Georges?--me, though I am his sister,
a De Roquemaure myself?"

His eyes looked back into hers now--looked deep into those pure,
clear, gray eyes; he hesitated no longer. She was his sister, was a De
Roquemaure, yet he believed.

"Yes," he said, "mademoiselle, I believe. I do believe."

Beneath the hateful, nec