wo iron sconces on the wall.

"Pray sit, mademoiselle, and rest," he bade, for she was starting up in
nervousness from the chair where he had put her. "I will return in a
moment."

When he had gone from the room, I said to her, half hesitating, yet
eagerly:

"Mademoiselle, you were never afraid on the way, where there was good
cause for fear. But now there is nothing to dread."

She rose and fluttered round the walls of the room, looking for
something. I thought it was for a way of escape, but it was not, for she
passed the three doors and came back to her place with an air of
disappointment, smoothing the loose strands of her hair.

"I never before went anywhere unmasked," she murmured.

Monsieur entered with a salver containing a silver cup of wine and some
Rheims biscuit. He offered it to her formally; she accepted with
scarcely audible thanks, and sat, barely touching the wine to her lips,
crumbling the biscuit into bits with restless fingers, making the
pretence of a meal serve as excuse for her silence. Monsieur glanced at
her, puzzled-wise, waiting for her to speak. Had the Infanta Isabella
come to visit him, he could not have been more surprised. It seemed to
him discourteous to press her; he waited for her to explain her
presence.

I wanted to shake mademoiselle. With a dozen swift words, with a glance
of her blue eyes, she could sweep Monsieur off his feet as she had swept
Vigo. And instead, she sat there, not daring to look at him, like a
child caught stealing sweets. She had found words to defend herself from
the teasing tongues at the Hotel de Lorraine, to plead for me, to lash
Lucas, to move Mayenne himself; but she could not find one syllable for
the Duke of St. Quentin. She had been to admiration the laughing
coquette, the stout champion, the haughty great lady, the frank lover;
but now she was the shy child, blushing, stammering, constrained.

Had Monsieur attacked her with blunt questions, had he demanded of her
up and down what had brought her this strange road at such amazing hour
and in such unfitting company, she must needs have answered, and, once
started, she would quickly have kindled her fire again. Had he, on other
part, with a smile, an encouraging word, given her ever so little a
push, she had gone on easily enough. But he did neither. He was
courteous and cold. Partly was his coldness real; he could not look on
her as other than the daughter of his enemy's house, ward of the man wh