s whom their
own countries have, for the most part, refused to tolerate--some of them
half-breeds, all of them savages? Haven't you yet begun to ask yourself
what you may expect from these devils when they take the law into their
own hands? I tell you, mademoiselle, it may happen this very night. It
may be happening now!"

She raised her eyes at that--dark eyes that gleamed momentarily and were
as swiftly lowered. When she spoke, her low voice held a thrill of
scorn.

"Not now, monsieur," she said. "To-night--possibly! But not now--not
without you to lead them!"

Pierre Dumaresq made a slight movement. It could not have been called a
menace, though it was in a fashion suggestive of violence
suppressed--the violence of the baited bull not fully roused to the
charge.

"You are not wise, Mademoiselle Stephanie," he said.

She answered him in a voice that quivered, in spite of her obvious
effort to control it.

"Nor am I altogether a fool, monsieur. Your sympathies are well known.
The revolutionists have looked to you to lead them as long as I have
known Maritas."

"That may be, mademoiselle," he sternly responded. "But it is possible,
is it not, that they may look in vain?"

Again swiftly her glance flashed upwards.

"Is it possible?" she breathed.

He did not deign to answer.

"I have not come to discuss my position," he said curtly, "but yours.
What are you going to do, mademoiselle? How do you propose to escape?"

She was white now, white to the lips; but she did not shrink.

"I beg that you will not concern yourself on my account," she said
proudly. "I shall no doubt find a means of escape if I need it."

"Where, mademoiselle?" There was something dogged in the man's voice,
his eyes were relentless in their determination. "Are you intending to
look to your stepfather for protection?"

Again, involuntarily almost, she raised her eyes, but they held no fear.

"No, monsieur," she responded coldly. "I shall find a better way than
that."

"How, mademoiselle?"

The brief question sounded like a threat. She stiffened as she heard it,
and stood silent.

"How, mademoiselle?" he said again.

She made a slight gesture of protest.

"Monsieur, it is no one's concern but my own."

"And mine," he said stubbornly.

She shook her head.

"No, monsieur."

"And mine," he repeated with emphasis, "since I presume to make it so.
You refuse to answer me merely because you know as well as I do that you
are c