went up to
the window, and leaning her head against the deep stone embrasure, she
looked out into the night.

Chapter XXIII The Hostage

Chauvelin, without speaking, extended his hand out towards the city as
if to invite Marguerite to gaze upon it.

She was quite unconscious what hour of the night it might be, but it
must have been late, for the little town, encircled by the stony arms
of its forts, seemed asleep. The moon, now slowly sinking in the west,
edged the towers and spires with filmy lines of silver. To the right
Marguerite caught sight of the frowning Beffroi, which even as she gazed
out began tolling its heavy bell. It sounded like the tocsin, dull and
muffled. After ten strokes it was still.

Ten o'clock! At this hour in far-off England, in fashionable London, the
play was just over, crowds of gaily dressed men and women poured out of
the open gates of the theatres calling loudly for attendant or chaise.
Thence to balls or routs, gaily fluttering like so many butterflies,
brilliant and irresponsible....

And in England also, in the beautiful gardens of her Richmond home,
ofttimes at ten o'clock she had wandered alone with Percy, when he was
at home, and the spirit of adventure in him momentarily laid to rest.
Then, when the night was very dark and the air heavy with the scent of
roses and lilies, she lay quiescent in his arms in that little arbour
beside the river. The rhythmic lapping of the waves was the only sound
that stirred the balmy air. He seldom spoke then, for his voice would
shake whenever he uttered a word: but his impenetrable armour of
flippancy was pierced through and he did not speak because his lips were
pressed to hers, and his love had soared beyond the domain of speech.

A shudder of intense mental pain went through her now as she gazed on
the sleeping city, and sweet memories of the past turned to bitterness
in this agonizing present. One by one as the moon gradually disappeared
behind a bank of clouds, the towers of Boulogne were merged in the
gloom. In front of her far, far away, beyond the flat sand dunes, the
sea seemed to be calling to her with a ghostly and melancholy moan.

The window was on the ground floor of the Fort, and gave direct onto the
wide and shady walk which runs along the crest of the city walls; from
where she stood Marguerite was looking straight along the ramparts, some
thirty metres wide at this point, flanked on either side by the granite
bal