been pondering over Antoine's words, speculating who it was in his charge who knew the whereabouts of the runaways, and he chuckled now at his own cleverness in making the discovery.
"Not so fast, mademoiselle; I mean no harm. I am sorry for you and would help you. On my honour, I meant no insult," he said, following her.
She stopped, but with an air of reluctance.
"Yet you did taunt me," and she gave him a reproachful glance, with just enough suggestion of tenderness in it to make him uncomfortable. But with a sudden change her eye flashed and she cried contemptuously—
"You help me! Why you are too great a coward! I thought once" and she stopped.
"I am no coward," he answered, with none too easy a laugh.
"I would have sworn that once," her tone was now regret with the suspicion of a sigh, "but you let even Denys beat you." It was a daring reference, but she felt very sure of her power with him.
"You lured me then," he declared, with an angry flush. This was her cue.
"Master Dauban! How can you!" and she fixed her large dark eyes upon him with a look of pained reproach, changing gradually to indignation as she added, with mounting vehemence, "Did I not say you were a coward? To blame a poor girl for what was none of her fault, and never to have spoken a word to her since. Oh!" and she stamped her foot now almost viciously, "were I not a girl you should pay for the cruel slander and—aye, and all your neglect." Then as if the thought of his neglect wounded her, her anger passed and she sighed in sore distress.
He was visibly disquieted, and in an indecisive, self-exculpating manner he asked—
