t she did not move, did not flinch, only she set her teeth; and her
eyes, fascinated by the steel, grew wider.

His hand sank slowly. He held the weapon to her, hilt foremost; she took
it mechanically.

"You think yourself brave enough to kill me, do you?" he sneered. "Then
take this, and strike, if you dare. Take it--strike, Madame! It is
sharp, and my arms are open." And he flung them wide, standing within a
pace of her. "Here, above the collar-bone, is the surest for a weak
hand. What, afraid?" he continued, as, stiffly clutching the weapon
which he had put into her hand, she glared at him, trembling and
astonished. "Afraid, and a Vrillac! Afraid, and 'tis but one blow! See,
my arms are open. One blow home, and you will never lie in them. Think
of that. One blow home, and you may lie in his. Think of that! Strike,
then, Madame," he went on, piling taunt on taunt, "if you dare, and if
you hate me. What, still afraid! How shall I give you heart? Shall I
strike you? It will not be the first time by ten. I keep count, you
see," he continued mockingly. "Or shall I kiss you? Ay, that may do.
And it will not be against your will, either, for you have that in your
hand will save you in an instant. Even"--he drew a foot nearer--"now!
Even--" And he stooped until his lips almost touched hers.

She sprang back. "Oh, do not!" she cried. "Oh, do not!" And, dropping
the dagger, she covered her face with her hands, and burst into weeping.

He stooped coolly, and, after groping some time for the poniard, drew it
from the leaves among which it had fallen. He put it into the sheath,
and not until he had done that did he speak. Then it was with a sneer.

"I have no need to fear overmuch," he said. "You are a poor hater,
Madame. And poor haters make poor lovers. 'Tis his loss! If you will
not strike a blow for him, there is but one thing left. Go, dream of
him!"

And, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, he turned on his heel.

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE AMBUSH.

The start they made at daybreak was gloomy and ill-omened, through one of
those white mists which are blown from the Atlantic over the flat lands
of Western Poitou. The horses, looming gigantic through the fog, winced
as the cold harness was girded on them. The men hurried to and fro with
saddles on their heads, and stumbled over other saddles, and swore
savagely. The women turned mutinous and would not rise; or, being
dragged u