Surely he should have!  Yet it was long before he responded.  He sat buried in thought of himself, and his position, the vile, the unworthy position in which her act had placed him.  At length the constraint of her gaze wrought on him, or his thoughts became unbearable; and he looked up and met her eyes, and with an oath he sprang to his feet.

“It shall not be!” he cried, in a tone low, but full of fury.  “You shall not do it!  I will kill him first!  I will kill him with this hand!  Or—­” a step took him to the window, a step brought him back—­ay, brought him back exultant, and with a changed face.  “Or better, we will thwart him yet.  See, Mademoiselle, do you see?  Heaven is merciful!  For a moment the cage is open!” His eye shone with excitement, the sweat of sudden hope stood on his brow as he pointed to the unguarded casement.  “Come! it is our one chance!” And he caught her by her arm and strove to draw her to the window.

But she hung back, staring at him.  “Oh no, no!” she cried.

“Yes, yes!  I say!” he responded.  “You do not understand.  The way is open!  We can escape, Clotilde, we can escape!”

“I cannot!  I cannot!” she wailed, still resisting him.

“You are afraid?”

“Afraid?” she repeated the word in a tone of wonder.  “No, but I cannot.  I promised him.  I cannot.  And, O God!” she continued, in a sudden outburst of grief, as the sense of general loss, of the great common tragedy broke on her and whelmed for the moment her private misery.  “Why should we think of ourselves?  They are dead, they are dying, who were ours, whom we loved!  Why should we think to live?  What does it matter how it fares with us?  We cannot be happy.  Happy?” she continued wildly.  “Are any happy now?  Or is the world all changed in a night?  No, we could not be happy.  And at least you will live, Tignonville.  I have that to console me.”

“Live!” he responded vehemently.  “I live?  I would rather die a thousand times.  A thousand times rather than live shamed!  Than see you sacrificed to that devil!  Than go out with a brand on my brow, for every man to point at me!  I would rather die a thousand times!”

“And do you think that I would not?” she answered, shivering.  “Better, far better die than—­than live with him!”

“Then why not die?”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, and a sudden stillness possessed her.  “How?” she whispered.  “What do you mean?”

“That!” he said.  As he spoke, he raised his hand and signed to her to listen.  A sullen murmur, distant as yet, but borne to the ear on the fresh morning air, foretold the rising of another storm.  The sound grew in intensity, even while she listened; and yet for a moment she misunderstood him.  “O God!” she cried, out of the agony of nerves overwrought, “will that bell never stop?  Will it never stop?  Will no one stop it?”

“’Tis not the bell!” he cried, seizing her hand as if to focus her attention.  “It is the mob you hear.  They are returning.  We have but to stand a moment at this open window, we have but to show ourselves to them, and we need live no longer!  Mademoiselle!  Clotilde!—­if you mean what you say, if you are in earnest, the way is open!”