“Don’t move, my boy,” said Mr. Morris, hastily—­“I have brought someone to see you.  She—­she is here,” and motioning Adrienne to enter, he went out, softly closing the door behind him.

For an instant Calvert could not see who his visitor was, for, though the firelight was bright, the room was much in shadow from the grayness of the afternoon and the heavy hangings at the long windows.  As the young girl came forward, however, he recognized her in spite of her extreme pallor and the change which two years and a half had wrought.  Concealing, as best he could, the shock of surprise and the sudden faintness which attacked him at her unexpected presence (for he was still very weak and ill), he bowed low and placed a chair for her.  But she shook her head and remained standing beside a little table in the centre of the room, one hand resting upon it for support.  She was so agitated, and so fearful lest Calvert should notice it and guess its true cause, that she summoned all her pride and old imperiousness to her aid.  Looking at her so, he wondered how it was that Mr. Morris had found her so softened.  Looking at him so, weak and ill and hurt for one she loved, she could have thrown herself at his feet and kissed his wounded arm.  It was with difficulty she commanded her voice sufficiently to speak.

“I am come, Mr. Calvert,” she said, at length, hurriedly, and in so constrained a tone that he could scarcely hear her, “I am come on an errand for which the sole excuse is your own nobility.  Had you not already risked your life for my brother, I could not dare to ask this still greater sacrifice.  Indeed, I think I cannot, as it is,” she said, clasping her hands and suddenly turning away.

Calvert was inexpressibly surprised by this exhibition of deep emotion in her.  He had never seen her so moved before.  “There is nothing I would not do for d’Azay, believe me,” he said, earnestly.  “I had hoped to avert this danger from him, but, unfortunately, I fear I have only postponed it.  Is there anything I can do?  If so, tell me what it is.”

“It is nothing less than the sacrifice of your whole life,” she said, in a low tone, and drawing back in the shadow of one of the windows.  “It is this—­I am come to ask you to marry me, Mr. Calvert, that by becoming an American subject I may save my brother.  We—­we have just been to obtain a passport for him to leave the city—­he is to be accused in the Assembly to-morrow,” she says, rapidly and breathlessly.  “A passport for Monsieur d’Azay is refused unconditionally, but one is promised for the brother of Madame Calvert, the American.”  She was no longer pale.  A burning blush was dyeing her whole face crimson, and she drew still farther back into the shadow of the window.  She laid one hand on the velvet curtain to steady herself.

Calvert gazed at her in unspeakable surprise.  For an instant a wild hope awoke within him, only to die.  She had come but to save her brother, as she had said, and the painfulness of her duty was only too apparent.