desires,” he murmured. And when she turned to him, astonished, “Madame,” he continued, “I have prayed, ah, how I have prayed, for this opportunity of speaking to you! And it has come. I would it had come this morning, but it has come. Do not start or look round; many eyes are on us, and, alas! I have that to say to you which it will move you to hear, and that to ask of you which it must task your courage to perform.”
She began to tremble, and stood looking up the green slope to the broken grey wall which crowned its summit.
“What is it?” she whispered, commanding herself with an effort. “What is it? If it have aught to do with M. Tignonville”
“It has not!”
In her surprise—for although she had put the question she had felt no doubt of the answer—she started and turned to him.
“It has not?” she exclaimed almost incredulously.
“No.”
“Then what is it, Monsieur?” she replied, a little haughtily. “What can there be that should move me so?”
“Life or death, Madame,” he answered solemnly. “Nay, more; for since Providence has given me this chance of speaking to you, a thing of which I despaired, I know that the burden is laid on us, and that it is guilt or it is innocence, according as we refuse the burden or bear it.”
“What is it, then?” she cried impatiently. “What is it?”
“I tried to speak to you this morning.”
“Was it you, then, whom Madame St. Lo saw stalking me before dinner?
“It was.”
She clasped her hands and heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God, Monsieur!” she replied. “You have lifted
