is awful spies. Oh! but for
that sad and careworn look on Armand's face we could be so happy; but
he is so unlike himself. He is Armand and yet another; his look at times
quite frightens me."

"Yet you know why he is so sad," said Marguerite in a strange, toneless
voice which she seemed quite unable to control, for that tonelessness
came from a terrible sense of suffocation, of a feeling as if her
heart-strings were being gripped by huge, hard hands.

"Yes, I know," said Jeanne half hesitatingly, as if knowing, she was
still unconvinced.

"His chief, his comrade, the friend of whom you speak, the Scarlet
Pimpernel, who risked his life in order to save yours, mademoiselle, is
a prisoner in the hands of those that hate him."

Marguerite had spoken with sudden vehemence. There was almost an appeal
in her voice now, as if she were trying not to convince Jeanne only, but
also herself, of something that was quite simple, quite straightforward,
and yet which appeared to be receding from her, an intangible something,
a spirit that was gradually yielding to a force as yet unborn, to a
phantom that had not yet emerged from out chaos.

But Jeanne seemed unconscious of all this. Her mind was absorbed in
Armand, the man whom she loved in her simple, whole-hearted way, and who
had seemed so different of late.

"Oh, yes!" she said with a deep, sad sigh, whilst the ever-ready tears
once more gathered in her eyes, "Armand is very unhappy because of him.
The Scarlet Pimpernel was his friend; Armand loved and revered him.
Did you know," added the girl, turning large, horror-filled eyes on
Marguerite, "that they want some information from him about the Dauphin,
and to force him to give it they--they--"

"Yes, I know," said Marguerite.

"Can you wonder, then, that Armand is unhappy. Oh! last night, after he
went from me, I cried for hours, just because he had looked so sad. He
no longer talks of happy England, of the cottage we were to have, and of
the Kentish orchards in May. He has not ceased to love me, for at times
his love seems so great that I tremble with a delicious sense of fear.
But oh! his love for me no longer makes him happy."

Her head had gradually sunk lower and lower on her breast, her voice
died down in a murmur broken by heartrending sighs. Every generous
impulse in Marguerite's noble nature prompted her to take that sorrowing
child in her arms, to comfort her if she could, to reassure her if
she had the power.