hing more to be said. He knew Percy
well enough by now to realise the finality of his pronouncements. His
heart felt sore, but he was too proud to show his hurt again to a
man who did not understand. All thoughts of disobedience he had put
resolutely aside; he had never meant to break his oath. All that he had
hoped to do was to persuade Percy to release him from it for awhile.

That by leaving Paris he risked to lose Jeanne he was quite convinced,
but it is nevertheless a true fact that in spite of this he did not
withdraw his love and trust from his chief. He was under the influence
of that same magnetism which enchained all his comrades to the will of
this man; and though his enthusiasm for the great cause had somewhat
waned, his allegiance to its leader was no longer tottering.

But he would not trust himself to speak again on the subject.

"I will find the others downstairs," was all he said, "and will arrange
with Hastings for to-morrow. Good night, Percy."

"Good night, my dear fellow. By the way, you have not told me yet who
she is."

"Her name is Jeanne Lange," said St. Just half reluctantly. He had not
meant to divulge his secret quite so fully as yet.

"The young actress at the Theatre National?"

"Yes. Do you know her?"

"Only by name."

"She is beautiful, Percy, and she is an angel.... Think of my sister
Marguerite... she, too, was an actress.... Good night, Percy."

"Good night."

The two men grasped one another by the hand. Armand's eyes proffered
a last desperate appeal. But Blakeney's eyes were impassive and
unrelenting, and Armand with a quick sigh finally took his leave.

For a long while after he had gone Blakeney stood silent and motionless
in the middle of the room. Armand's last words lingered in his ear:

"Think of Marguerite!"

The walls had fallen away from around him--the window, the river
below, the Temple prison had all faded away, merged in the chaos of his
thoughts.

Now he was no longer in Paris; he heard nothing of the horrors that even
at this hour of the night were raging around him; he did not hear the
call of murdered victims, of innocent women and children crying for
help; he did not see the descendant of St. Louis, with a red cap on
his baby head, stamping on the fleur-de-lys, and heaping insults on the
memory of his mother. All that had faded into nothingness.

He was in the garden at Richmond, and Marguerite was sitting on the
stone seat, with branches of the