odhounds would be put on my track. My husband has hinted
all this to me. And where could I flee to but the Convent? The Count
would have men there before I could reach it."

"I could find some other place to take you to," said I at a hazard.

"Ah, Monsieur, then indeed would appearances be against me. Then indeed
would the enemy of my poor reputation have his triumph. Alas, there is
no honourable place in this world for a wife who leaves her husband's
roof, though it be her prison. I will be true to my vows, though I die.
If there be wrong, it shall be all of his doing, none of mine."

"You believe it is this Captain who has slandered you. Why should he do
that? Why is he your enemy?"

She blushed and looked down. I understood.

"But why do you not tell your husband that?" I asked quickly.

"The Count says it is an old story that wives accuse their husbands'
friends whom they dislike. He thinks women are made of lies. And in any
case he says if I am innocent of this charge I can prove my innocence.
So all depended on Monsieur de Merri's being here to-morrow to speak for
me."

"Ah, Madame, if only my speaking for you would avail anything!"

"From the depths of my heart I thank you, Monsieur, though you see how
useless you--And yet there is one thing you can say for me!" A great
light of sudden hope dawned upon her face. "You can tell how you saw
Monsieur de Merri--that he was coming here, but was prevented--"

"Yes, I can do that."

"And perhaps--who knows?--you can induce the Count to give me a few more
days, till the cause of Monsieur de Merri's delay is past. And then you
can ride or send to Monsieur de Merri, and tell him my situation, and he
will come and put my accuser to shame, after all! Yes, thank God, there
is hope! Oh, Monsieur, you may yet be able to save me!"

There were tears of joy on her face, and she gratefully clasped my hand
in both of hers.

It sickened my heart to do it, but I could only shake my head sadly and
say:

"No, Madame, Monsieur de Merri can never come to speak for you."

"Why not?" she cried, all the hope rushing out of her face again.

"He is dead--slain in a duel." I said in a voice as faint as a whisper.

Her face seemed to turn to marble.

"Who killed him?" she presently asked in a horrified tone.

I knelt at her feet, with averted eyes, as one who is all contrition but
dare not ask a pardon.

"You!" she whispered.

"When I found this message upon him afterward,