“But—­pray—­I beg of you—­” remonstrated Herr Bernat, “at least, let us count it.”

“You can count it when you get home,” interrupted Count Vavel.

“But I must give you a receipt for it.”

“A receipt?” repeated his host.  “A receipt between gentlemen?  A receipt for money which is given for the defense of the fatherland?”

“But I certainly cannot take all this money without something to show from whom I received it, and for what purpose.  Give me at least a few words with your signature, Herr Count.”

“That I will gladly do,” responded the count, turning toward his desk, and coming face to face with Marie, who had descended from her throne.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, laying her hand on his arm.

“Write.”

“Are you going to let strangers see your writing, and perhaps betray who you are?”

“In a week the strokes from my hand will tell who I am,” he replied, with double meaning.

“Oh, you are terrible!” murmured Marie, turning her face away.

“I am so for your sake, Marie.”

“For my sake?” echoed the young girl, sorrowfully.  “For my sake?  Do you imagine that I shall take pleasure in seeing you go into battle?  Suppose you should fall?”

“Have no fear on that score, Marie,” returned the young man, confidently.  “I shall have a guiding star to watch over me; and if there be a God in heaven—­”

“Then may He take me to Himself!” interposed the young girl in a fervent tone, lifting a transfigured glance toward heaven.  “And may He grant that there be not on earth one other Frenchwoman who is forced to pray for the defeat of her own nation!  May He grant that there be not another woman in the world who is waiting until a pedestal is formed of her countrymen’s and kinsmen’s skeletons, that she may be elevated to it as an idol from which many, many of her brothers will turn with a curse!  May God take me to Himself now—­now, while yet my two hands are white, while yet I cherish toward my nation nothing but love and tenderness, now when I forgive and forget everything, and desire none of this world’s splendor for myself!”

Ludwig Vavel was filled with admiration by this outburst from the innocent girl heart.

“Your words, Marie, only increase the brilliancy of the halo which encircles your head.  They legalize the rights of my sword.  I, too, adore my native land—­no one more than I!  I, too, bow before the infinite judge and submit my case to His wise decision.  O God, Thou who protecteth France, look down and behold him who rides yonder, his horse ankle-deep in the blood of his countrymen, who looks without pity on the dying legions and says, ‘It is well!’ Then, O God, look Thou upon this saint here, who prays for her persecutors, and pass judgment between the two:  which of the two is Thy image on earth?”