“No, no; not at all—­that is, very slightly, indeed.  Pass on, I will attend you safely to your seat,” and, obeying the wave of his hand, I followed the direction of Mrs. Stanbury’s white plume as observingly as did the followers of Henry of Navarre, without turning again until I reached the box she had entered.  I was shocked then, as I bowed my thanks, at the ghastly whiteness and expression of my escort’s face, but he vanished too quickly to permit of inquiry or remark at that season.

I had still time before the curtain rose to relate my adventure, which brought the blood hotly to George Gaston’s brow as he listened to it.

“There it is!” he muttered.  “It is all very well with me in peaceful times, but, when it comes to battle, a poor, lame wretch is of little account.  I might as well be a woman;” and the tears flowed down his quivering cheeks.  “It was shameful, disgraceful, that any other man should have defended you, Miriam,” he added, in a broken voice, clinching his hands, “than I, your escort.”

“You did not even see the affair, George,” I remonstrated.  “Had you been as strong as Samson, and I know you are just as brave, you could not have helped me, for there I was lagging away behind, through my own fault, and how could you, in front, between your aunt and Laura, possibly know what danger was in store for me?  Now, I shall feel provoked if you show so much morbid feeling; besides, reflect, you are but a boy, dear.  George.  No youth of your age is ever very strong.”

“A boy! and what are you, Miriam Monfort, that you taunt me with youth! a woman, I suppose—­a heroine!” with bitter sarcasm in his voice and eye, for the first time in his life so directed to me.  I gazed at him in mute surprise.

“My dear George, you are very unreasonable, indeed,” said Mrs. Stanbury.  “What has Miriam done to deserve such a taunt?  I never knew you to behave in such an uncourteous way before.”

“You must be crazy, George Gaston,” added Laura Stanbury, sharply.  “Don’t you know you are attracting attention toward our box.  Be still directly!”

“Oh no, it is only the magnificent Miss Monfort that every one is staring at,” he sneered.  “The grown-up lady, the heroine, the heiress, who lingers behind in the lobby, in order to get up little melodramas of her own at the opera where such things are admissible, at the expense of her lame escort!”

I turned to him calmly; I had not spoken before.  “George,” I said, “if you say another word I shall go home alone, or burst into tears on the spot, and disgrace myself and you, one or the other.  I cannot bear another word like this.  I warn you, George Gaston!”

“Dear Miriam, forgive me; I am a fool I know,” he said, as soon as he could recover himself.  “Lend me your handkerchief, Laura, mine has mysteriously disappeared.  There—­Richard’s himself again! (Sorra to him!) He ought to have a bullet through his head for his pains” (sotto voce).