Marguerite had let herself slip from the couch. "I will go to her," she said.
"You lie still, my pretty—"
"At once. There is no time to be lost. Help me. Any moment some one may join her."
"I will go and call her—prepare her!"
"She might refuse. Come, aid me before my husband returns." She dragged herself the few requisite steps, the woman assisting her.
"Come in," said a pleasant voice. The French girl sank on the nearest seat.
"Let me speak to you a moment alone, for the love of God!" she said, exchanging her broken Dutch for her own language.
Agnes motioned assent. She had thought the knock to mean her cousin. The note lay ready on the table by which she informed Felix of her intention to accompany Floris through the custom-house and to leave the British vessel in a rowing-boat, landing far up the Y before sunrise. The plan had its manifest dangers, but she was certain that the journey to Russia, for Floris, meant nothing less than death. The disappointment and surprise of the stranger's entrance took away her voice.
"Are you a good patriot? Do you love your countrymen?" continued Marguerite, eagerly. The chambermaid departed, grumbling at foreign lingoes.
The young lady in the high-backed tapestry chair drew a little aside. The light from the single oil-lamp, under its green shade, fell, heavily clouded by the dark and lofty chamber, across her white hands lying listless in the lap of her travelling-dress. Near to her the French girl lay more than sat, her hand stretched out in an anguish of appeal.
"I love my country," came the guarded reply.
"Trust me, mademoiselle! I have little time to lose. Swear to me by the Blessed Virgin—nay, by some oath you Huguenots keep—swear secrecy, silence!" A spasm crossed her face.
"You are ill! You are suffering!" exclaimed Agnes, in an altered voice.
"No, no! Swear! It is a matter of life and death."
"Hush! Calm yourself. I swear."
"I am come here with a young Dutchman flying for his life. I can go no farther—no, not to save a life! I should but lose three. Within an hour he must be on board the vessel." She paused.
"Well, what can I do for you?"
"He cannot go alone. He cannot go alone."
"I do not understand."
"He cannot present himself at the custom-house alone. His passport is made out for a man and his wife."
"And you are his wife? But they will not hurt you."
"The passport is not his; it will not bear scrutiny. The passport bears another name. The name of an Englishman."
"Whose name?" asked the listener, and struck down the lamp-shade.
"Does that matter? I know not. The name of an Englishman. I come to you. I ask, have you not a maid, some woman to be trusted, that can go with your countryman on board, through the customs?"
"And then?" The other girl's voice had grown steadier.
"Then she would take the rowing-boat up the Y and be landed at some lonely spot, in the darkness."
"That was your plan?" The voice was again quite calm.
Silence.
"That was your plan?"
"Mine?—no. Did I not tell you I was his wife
"His wife! His wife!"
"Ah, do not cry out thus! Do not reproach me, mademoiselle. There are things you young ladies do not understand. He was going to take me with him to England and marry me there."
"Woman, you are a liar! You have lied to me about this last thing. Who knows but that you lie to me about all?"
The French girl burst into violent weeping. "You know," she said, covering her face with her hands. "You can hear, you can see the truth of my story. Do they speak as I do who act a part? Help me, help him, for the love of Heaven!"
The girl in the chair lay back without moving. At length she said, checking the other's hysterical sobs, "I will help you if you tell me his name."
"Why—why?"
"I will help you if you tell me his name."
