between us.'

'Yet there must be one thing more between us,' I answered firmly. 'You
must listen to me a little longer whether you will or no, Mademoiselle:
for the love you bear to your brother. There is one course still open to
me by which I may redeem my honour; and it has been in my mind for some
time back to take that course. 'To-day, I am thankful to say, I can
take it cheerfully, if not without regret; with a steadfast heart, if
no light one. Mademoiselle,' I continued earnestly, feeling none of the
triumph, none of the vanity, none of the elation I had foreseen, but
only simple joy in the joy I could give her, 'I thank God that it IS
still in my power to undo what I have done: that it is still in my power
to go back to him who sent me, and telling him that I have changed my
mind, and will bear my own burdens, to pay the penalty.'

We were within a hundred paces of the top and the finger-post. She cried
out wildly that she did not understand. 'What is it you--you--have just
said?' she murmured. 'I cannot hear.' And she began to fumble with the
ribbon of her mask.

'Only this, Mademoiselle,' I answered gently. 'I give your brother
back his word, his parole. From this moment he is free to go whither he
pleases. Here, where we stand, four roads meet. That to the right goes
to Montauban, where you have doubtless friends, and can lie hid for a
time. Or that to the left leads to Bordeaux, where you can take ship if
you please. And in a word, Mademoiselle,' I continued, ending a little
feebly, 'I hope that your troubles are now over.'

She turned her face to me--we had both come to a standstill--and plucked
at the fastenings of her mask. But her trembling fingers had knotted the
string, and in a moment she dropped her hand with a cry of despair. 'But
you? You?' she wailed in a voice so changed that I should not have known
it for hers. 'What will you do? I do not understand, Monsieur.'

'There is a third road,' I answered. 'It leads to Paris. That is my
road, Mademoiselle. We part here.'

'But why?' she cried wildly.

'Because from to-day I would fain begin to be honourable,' I answered in
a low voice. 'Because I dare not be generous at another's cost. I must
go back whence I came.'

'To the Chatelet?' she muttered.

'Yes, Mademoiselle, to the Chatelet.'

She tried feverishly to raise her mask with her hand.

'I am not well,' she stammered. 'I cannot breathe.'

And she began to sway so violently in her sadd