“Who’s that—­who’s that,” said she, raising her head upon her pillow.  The window curtains of the room were hardly closed, and she recognised immediately Henri’s tall figure, and singular costume.  “Oh!  Henri, what has happened? what brings you here?”

“Rise, dearest, we must fly,” said he:  “we have not a moment—­we fear the blues are coming.”  He dreaded that she would have lost all power of motion, had he told her that they were already beneath the windows.

“Haven’t I time to dress?” said she; “I won’t be a moment—­not one minute.”

“No, darling,” answered he, raising her from the bed, as though she were an infant, and folding her in her brother’s cloak.  “We haven’t one instant to throw away.  Remember who has you in his arms:  remember that it is I, your own Henri, who am pressing you to my heart.”  He took her up from the bed in his left arm, and with his right hand arraigned the cloak around her person, and carrying her out into the passage, hurried to the window which he had left open.

This window looked from the opposite end of the house to that at which Westerman found the open door.  It was on the first landing of the staircase, and was therefore distant from the ground but little more than half the height of the ground floor, but a hard gravel path ran immediately under it; and though the leap was one which few young men might much hesitate to take with empty arms, it was perilous with such a burden as Henri had to carry.  He however did not think twice about it, and would have considered himself and his charge nearly safe could he have reached the window unmolested, but that he was not allowed to do.

As he began to descend the stairs the loud noise of the troopers’ boots, and the quick voice of Westerman giving his commands in the hall, told him at once that the house was already occupied by the blues.  Even then, at that awful moment, he rejoiced at his precaution in having desired de Lescure to close the garden door.  He took a large horse pistol from his belt, and holding it by the barrel, jumped down three stairs at a time, and already had his foot on the sill of the open window, when serjeant Craucher, who had been the first of the blues to enter the house, rushing up the stairs, succeeded in getting hold of the cloak which covered Marie.  He pulled it from off her neck and shoulders, and her beautiful dark clustering curls fell down over Henri’s shoulder.  Her pale face, and white neck and bosom were exposed:  her eyes were fast closed, as though she expected instant death, but both her arms were tightly fastened round her lover.

Craucher stumbled in his hurry in rushing up the stairs, but he still held fast to the collar of the cloak.

“I must stop your further journey, my pretty dear,” said he:  “the night air is not good for you—­by heavens it’s the red—­”