She did not answer or protest; and when he had waited a moment in vain expectation of her protest, a cruel look crept into his eyes.

“Madame,” he said slowly, “do you never reflect that you may push the part you play too far?  That the patience, even of the worst of men, does not endure for ever?”

“I have your word!” she answered.

“And you do not fear?”

“I have your word,” she repeated.  And now she looked him bravely in the face, her eyes full of the courage of her race.

The lines of his mouth hardened as he met her look.  “And what have I of yours?” he said in a low voice.  “What have I of yours?”

Her face began to burn at that, her eyes fell and she faltered.

“My gratitude,” she murmured, with an upward look that prayed for pity.  “God knows, Monsieur, you have that!”

“God knows I do not want it!” he answered.  And he laughed derisively.  “Your gratitude!” And he mocked her tone rudely and coarsely.  “Your gratitude!” Then for a minute—­for so long a time that she began to wonder and to quake—­he was silent.  At last, “A fig for your gratitude,” he said.  “I want your love!  I suppose—­cold as you are, and a Huguenot—­you can love like other women!”

It was the first, the very first time he had used the word to her; and though it fell from his lips like a threat, though he used it as a man presents a pistol, she flushed anew from throat to brow.  But she did not quail.

“It is not mine to give,” she said.

“It is his?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” she answered, wondering at her courage, at her audacity, her madness.  “It is his.”

“And it cannot be mine—­at any time?”

She shook her head, trembling.

“Never?” And, suddenly reaching forward, he gripped her wrist in an iron grasp.  There was passion in his tone.  His eyes burned her.

Whether it was that set her on another track, or pure despair, or the cry in her ears of little children and of helpless women, something in a moment inspired her, flashed in her eyes and altered her voice.  She raised her head and looked him firmly in the face.

“What,” she said, “do you mean by love?”

“You!” he answered brutally.

“Then—­it may be, Monsieur,” she returned.  “There is a way if you will.”

“A way!”

“If you will!”

As she spoke she rose slowly to her feet; for in his surprise he had released her wrist.  He rose with her, and they stood confronting one another on the strip of grass between the river and the poplars.

“If I will?” His form seemed to dilate, his eyes devoured her.  “If I will?”

“Yes,” she replied.  “If you will give me the letters that are in your belt, the packet which I saved to-day—­that I may destroy them—­I will be yours freely and willingly.”

He drew a deep breath, still devouring her with his eyes.