leave her there; you will then go to the
guard-house and bring thence the prisoner, Marteau; you will conduct
him to mademoiselle, my niece, and you will leave them together for
half an hour; you will see that the prisoner is carefully guarded, that
sentries are posted outside of the windows, and you, yourself, will
remain with other escort, in front of the door."

"But out of hearing," said the young woman quickly.

"That, of course. And on your honor, on your duty, on your allegiance,
you will say absolutely nothing about this to any one. Do you
understand?"

"I understand, monsieur. I shall obey," said St. Laurent, a youth of
rare quality, as has been seen.

"Good. You have one half-hour, my child. God grant that you may serve
France and induce this wretched prisoner to give up the Eagle. Your
impulse of mercy does you credit," he said adroitly, making the best of
the situation for St. Laurent's benefit. "Now you may go."

"This way, mademoiselle," said St. Laurent, bowing low before her at
the open door.

As the Countess passed down the long corridor she almost ran into young
Pierre, the boy. He had been questioned with the rest, but had
absolutely nothing to tell. Of course, he knew about the recovery of
the Eagle, but that was all. He had known nothing about the midnight
meeting. The Countess Laure had taken him into her service, her uncle
being willing. And he had spent a miserable day when not with her,
wondering and hoping and praying for Marteau. With others in the
regiments he had received important news in the last hour, and had made
every effort to get it to Marteau, as had been suggested to him, but he
had hitherto failed. No sentry would pass him, and there was no way he
could get speech with the prisoner.

He was in despair when he saw the Countess approaching, St. Laurent
marching ceremoniously ahead, as if to clear the way.

"Mademoiselle," he whispered, plucking her gown.

"What is it?" asked the girl, naturally sinking her voice to the
other's pitch.

"You will see--him?"

"Yes."

"A message."

"What is it?"

"Give him this."

The boy thrust into her hand two or three flowers like those her uncle
had picked, the first purple blossoms of the virgin spring.

"And the message?"

"The violets have bloomed," said the boy, and he was gone.

CHAPTER XXIV

ON THE WHOLE DEATH MAY BE BETTER THAN LIFE

Marteau realized fully his position, and it would be idle to s