w."

For answer, I enfolded her more tightly still.

"But I do know, little one," I whispered; "and I even understand."

At that, her struggles ceased upon the instant, and she seemed to lie
limp and helpless in my arms.

"You know, monsieur," she questioned me--"you know that I betrayed you?"

"Yes," I answered simply.

"And you can forgive me? I am sending you to your death and you have no
reproaches for me! Oh, monsieur, it will kill me!"

"Hush, child!" I whispered. "What reproaches can I have for you? I know
the motives that impelled you."

"Not altogether, monsieur; you cannot know them. I loved you, monsieur.
I do love you, monsieur. Oh! this is not a time to consider words. If I
am bold and unmaidenly, I--I--"

"Neither bold nor unmaidenly, but--oh, the sweetest damsel in all
France, my Roxalanne!" I broke in, coming to her aid. "Mine was a
leprous, sinful soul, child, when I came into Languedoc. I had no
faith in any human good, and I looked as little for an honest man or a
virtuous woman as one looks for honey in a nettle. I was soured, and my
life had hardly been such a life as it was meet to bring into contact
with your own. Then, among the roses at Lavedan, in your dear company,
Roxalanne, it seemed that some of the good, some of the sweetness, some
of the purity about you were infused anew into my heart. I became young
again, and I seemed oddly cleansed. In that hour of my rejuvenation I
loved you, Roxalanne."

Her face had been raised to mine as I spoke. There came now a flutter of
the eyelids, a curious smile about the lips. Then her head drooped again
and was laid against my breast; a sigh escaped her, and she began to
weep softly.

"Nay, Roxalanne, do not fret. Come, child, it is not your way to be
weak."

"I have betrayed you!" she moaned. "I am sending you to your death!"

"I understand, I understand," I answered, smoothing her brown hair.

"Not quite, monsieur. I loved you so, monsieur, that you can have no
thought of how I suffered that morning when Mademoiselle de Marsac came
to Lavedan.

"At first it was but the pain of thinking that--that I was about to lose
you; that you were to go out of my life, and that I should see you no
more--you whom I had enshrined so in my heart.

"I called myself a little fool that morning for having dreamed that
you had come to care for me; my vanity I thought had deluded me into
imagining that your manner towards me had a tenderness that spoke of