“Lorance, Lorance!” M. Etienne murmured tremulously.  “She said I should kiss you—­”

I put my fingers in my ears and then took them out again, for if my ears were sealed, how was I to hear Mme. de Nemours approaching?  But I admit I should have kept my eyes glued to the crack of the door; that I ever turned them is my shame.  I have no business to know that mademoiselle bowed her face upon her lover’s shoulder, her hand clasping his neck, silent, motionless.  He pressed his cheek against her hair, holding her close; neither had any will to move or speak.  It seemed they were well content to stand so the rest of their lives.

Mademoiselle was the first to stir; she raised her head and strove to break away from his locked arms.

“Monsieur! monsieur!  This is madness!  You must go!”

“Are you sorry I came?” he demanded vibrantly.  “Are you sorry, Lorance?”

His eyes held hers; she threw pretence to the winds.

“No, monsieur; I am glad.  For if we never meet again, we have had this.”

“Aye.  If I die to-night, I have had to-day.”

Their voices were like the rune of the heart of the forest, like the music of deep streams.  I turned away my head ashamed, and strove to think of nothing but the waking of Mme. de Nemours.

“I thought you dead,” she moaned, her voice muffled against his cheek.  “No one would tell me what happened last night.  I could not devise any way of escape for you—­”

“There is a tunnel from Ferou’s house to the Rue de la Soierie.  His mother—­merciful angel—­let me through.”

“And you were not hurt?”

“Not a scratch, ma mie.”

“But the wound before?  Felix said—­”

“I was put out of combat the night I got it,” he explained earnestly, troubled even now because he had not obeyed her summons.  “I was dizzy; I could not walk.”

“But now, monsieur?  Does it heal?”

“It is well—­almost.  ’Twas but a slash on the arm.”

“Oh, then have I no anxiety,” she murmured, with a smile that twinkled across her lips and was gone.  “I cannot perceive you to be disabled, monsieur.”

“My sweeting!” he laughed out.  “If I cannot hold a sword yet, I can hold my love.”

“But you must not, monsieur,” she cried, fear, that had slept a moment, springing on her again.  “You must go, and this instant, while the others are yet away.  I knew you, Blanche knew you; some other will.  Oh, go, go, I implore you!”

“If you will come with me.”

She made no answer, save to look at him as at a madman.

“Nay, I mean not now, past the sentry.  I am not so crazy as that.  But you will slip out, you will find a way, and come to me.”

Silently, sadly, she shook her head.  His arms loosened, and she freed herself from him.  But instantly he was close on her again.

“But you must! you will, you must!  Ah, Lorance, my father is won over.  He bids me win you.  He has sworn to welcome you; when he sees you he will be your slave.”