But by this time Croisette was at the end of the corridor; and reassuring the fellow by a gesture I hurried on, until brought to a standstill by a man opening a door in my face.  He had heard our returning footsteps, and eyed me suspiciously; but gave way after a moment with a grunt of doubt I hastened on, reaching the door of the room in which we had supped in time to see something which filled me with grim astonishment; so much so that I stood rooted where I was, too proud at any rate to interfere.

Bezers was standing, the leering priest at his elbow.  And Croisette was stooping forward, his hands stretched out in an attitude of supplication.

“Nay, but M. le Vidame,” the lad cried, as I stood, the door in my hand, “it were better to stab her at once than break her heart!  Have pity on her!  If you kill him, you kill her!”

The Vidame was silent, seeming to glower on the boy.  The priest sneered.  “Hearts are soon mended—­especially women’s,” he said.

“But not Kit’s!” Croisette said passionately—­otherwise ignoring him.  “Not Kit’s!  You do not know her, Vidame!  Indeed you do not!”

The remark was ill-timed.  I saw a spasm of anger distort Bezers’ face.  “Get up, boy!” he snarled, “I wrote to Mademoiselle what I would do, and that I shall do!  A Bezers keeps his word.  By the God above us—­if there be a God, and in the devil’s name I doubt it to-night!—­I shall keep mine!  Go!”

His great face was full of rage.  He looked over Croisette’s head as he spoke, as if appealing to the Great Registrar of his vow, in the very moment in which he all but denied Him.  I turned and stole back the way I had come; and heard Croisette follow.

That little scene completed my misery.  After that I seemed to take no heed of anything or anybody until I was aroused by the grating of our gaoler’s key in the lock, and became aware that he was gone, and that we were alone in a small room under the tiles.  He had left the candle on the floor, and we three stood round it.  Save for the long shadows we cast on the walls and two pallets hastily thrown down in one corner, the place was empty.  I did not look much at it, and I would not look at the others.  I flung myself on one of the pallets and turned my face to the wall, despairing.  I thought bitterly of the failure we had made of it, and of the Vidame’s triumph.  I cursed St. Croix especially for that last touch of humiliation he had set to it.  Then, forgetting myself as my anger abated, I thought of Kit so far away at Caylus—­of Kit’s pale, gentle face, and her sorrow.  And little by little I forgave Croisette.  After all he had not begged for us—­he had not stooped for our sakes, but for hers.

I do not know how long I lay at see-saw between these two moods.  Or whether during that time the others talked or were silent, moved about the room or lay still.  But it was Croisette’s hand on my shoulder, touching me with a quivering eagerness that instantly communicated itself to my limbs, which recalled me to the room and its shadows.  “Anne!” he cried.  “Anne!  Are you awake?”