“Rash man!” cried Marie, recoiling, her face scarlet with indignation and shame; “you dare to speak thus to the sister of your legitimate sovereign?  Give thanks to God that I will pardon an insult offered, as I know, in a moment of madness; try by your devotion to make me forget what you have said.”

The count, without one word, signed to his son and a priest to follow, and prepared to depart.  As he crossed the threshold Marie ran to him, and clasping her hands, prayed him in God’s name never to forsake her.  Renaud stopped.

“I might easily take my revenge,” he said, “for your affront when you refuse my son in your pride; but that business I leave to Louis of Hungary, who will acquit himself, no doubt, with credit.”

“Have mercy on my poor daughters!” cried the princess; “mercy at least for my poor babes, if my own tears cannot move you.”

“If you loved your children,” said the admiral, frowning, “you would have done your duty at once.”

“But I do not love your son!” cried Marie, proud but trembling.  “O God, must a wretched woman’s heart be thus trampled?  You, father, a minister of truth and justice, tell this man that God must not be called on to witness an oath dragged from the weak and helpless!”

She turned to the admiral’s son; and added, sobbing—­

“You are young, perhaps you have loved:  one day no doubt you will love.  I appeal to your loyalty as a young man, to your courtesy as a knight, to all your noblest impulses; join me, and turn your father away from his fatal project.  You have never seen me before:  you do not know but that in my secret heart I love another.  Your pride should be revolted at the sight of an unhappy woman casting herself at your feet and imploring your favour and protection.  One word from you, Robert, and I shall bless you every moment of my life:  the memory of you will be graven in my heart like the memory of a guardian angel, and my children shall name you nightly in their prayers, asking God to grant your wishes.  Oh, say, will you not save me?  Who knows, later on I may love you—­with real love.”

“I must obey my father,” Robert replied, never lifting his eyes to the lovely suppliant.

The priest was silent.  Two minutes passed, and these four persons, each absorbed in his own thoughts, stood motionless as statues carved at the four corners of a tomb.  Marie was thrice tempted to throw herself into the sea.  But a confused distant sound suddenly struck upon her ears:  little by little it drew nearer, voices were more distinctly heard; women in the street were uttering cries of distress—­

“Fly, fly!  God has forsaken us; the Hungarians are in the town!”

The tears of Marie’s children were the answer to these cries; and little Margaret, raising her hands to her mother, expressed her fear in speech that was far beyond her years.  Renaud, without one look at this touching picture, drew his son towards the door.