“Ah, Jacqueline, why not say to me what you are thinking?  Have you lost your courage?  Say, ‘Thou hast not lied unto men, but unto God.’”

“No,—­oh, no!  How could I say it, my poor Victor?  How do you know?”

“Surely you cannot know, as you say.  But from where you stand, that is what you are thinking.  Jacqueline, confess!  If you should speak your mind, it would be, ’Thou hast not lied unto men, but unto God, poor coward!’ Oh, Jacqueline, Mazurier may deceive himself!  I speak not for him; but what will you do with your poor Victor, my poor Jacqueline?”

She did not linger in the answer,—­she did not sob or tremble,—­he was by her side.

“Love him to the end.  As He, when He loved His own.”

“Your own, poor girl?  No, no!”

“You gave yourself to me,” she answered straightway, with resolute firmness clinging to the all she had.

“I was a man then,” he answered.  “But I will never give a liar and a coward to Jacqueline Gabrie.  Everything but myself, Jacqueline!  Take the old words, and the old memory.  But for this outcast, him you shall forget.  My God! thou hast not brought this brave girl from Domremy, and lighted her heart with a coal from Thine altar, that she should turn from Thee to me!  If you love a liar and a coward, Jacqueline, you cannot help yourself,—­he will make you one, too.  And what I loved you for was your truth and purity and courage.  I have given you a treasure which was greater than I could keep.—­Where is it that you live now, Jacqueline?  I am not yet such a poltroon that I am afraid to conduct you.  I think that I should have the courage to protect you to-night, if you were in any immediate danger.  Come, lead the way.”

“No,” said Jacqueline.  “I am not going home.  I could not sleep; and a roof over my head—­any save God’s heaven—­would suffocate me, I believe.”

“Go, then, as you will.  But where?”

Jacqueline did not answer, but walked quietly on; and so they passed beyond the city-borders to the river-bank,—­far away into the country, through the fields, under the light of stars and of the waning moon.

“If I had been true!” said Victor,—­“if I had not listened to him!  But him I will not blame.  For why should I blame him?  Am I an idiot?  And his influence could not have prevailed, had I not so chosen, when I stood before my judges and they questioned me.  No,—­I acquit Mazurier.  Perhaps what I have denied never appeared to him so glorious as it did once to me; and so he was guiltless at least of knowing what it was I did.  But I knew.  And I could not have been deceived for a moment.  No,—­I think it impossible that for a moment I should have been deceived.  They would have made a notable example of me, Jacqueline.  I am rich,—­I am a student.—­Oh, yes!  Jesus Christ may die for me, and I accept the benefit; but when it comes to suffering for His sake,—­you could not have expected that