The servant left the room.  Some of the men were talking together in low tones; they were mostly good-looking and well dressed.

“Gentlemen,” said his Lordship, rising suddenly, “I’m going to turn you out of here for a moment—­they’re a shy lot.  Won’t you go into the library?”

They all rose and went out of a door save one, a bald man of middle age, half tipsy, who begged of his “Ludship” the privilege of remaining.

“Sir Charles,” said the young man, still lounging in his chair as he spoke, in that cold, calm tone of his, “you annoy me.  Go at once!” and he went.

They covered our faces with napkins of white linen.  Then we heard heavy steps, the clank of scabbards on a stairway, the feet of ladies, and the swish of their gowns.  With a quick movement our faces were uncovered.  I rose to my feet, for there before me stood Louison and the Baroness de Ferre, between two guards, and, behind them, Louise, her eyes covered, her beautiful head bent low.  I could see that she was crying.  The truth came to me in a flash of thought.  They had been taken after we left; they were prisoners brought here to identify us.  A like quickness of perception had apparently come to all.  We four stood looking at one another with no sign of recognition.  My face may have shown the surprise and horror in me, but shortly I had recovered my stony calm.  The ladies were dressed finely, with the taste and care I had so much admired.  Louison turned away from me with a splendid dignity and stood looking up at the wall, her hands behind her, a toe of one shoe tapping the floor impatiently.  It was a picture to remember a lifetime.  I could feel my pulse quicken as I looked upon her.  The baroness stood, sober-faced, her eyes looking down, her fan moving slowly.  His Lordship rose and came to Louise.

“Come, now, my pretty prisoner; it is disagreeable, but you must forgive me,” he said.

[Illustration:  “Come, now, my pretty prisoner; it is disagreeable, but you must forgive me.”]

She turned away from him, drying her eyes.  Then presently their beauty shone upon me.

“Grace au ciel!” she exclaimed, a great joy in her eyes and voice.  “It is M’sieur Bell.  Sister—­baroness—­it is M’sieur Bell!”

I advanced to meet her, and took her hand, kissing it reverently.  She covered her face, her hand upon my shoulder, and wept in silence.  If it meant my death, I should die thanking God I knew, or thought I knew, that she loved me.

“Ah, yes; it is M’sieur Bell—­poor fellow!” said Louison, coming quickly to me.  “And you, my dear, you are Ma’m’selle Louise.”

She spoke quickly in French, as if quite out of patience with the poor diplomacy of her sister.

“I knew it was you, for I saw the emerald on your finger,” she added, turning to me, “but I could not tell her.”

“I am glad, I am delighted, that she spoke to me,” I said.  I desired to save the fair girl, whose heart was ever as a child’s, any sorrow for what she had done.  “I was about to speak myself.  It is so great a pleasure to see you all I could not longer endure silence.”