A sigh of infinite relief escaped his lips.

“Come, that’s better!” he said, patting her cheek kindly with his hand.  “Now, listen to me, little one.  He who is the chief among us here is the most unscrupulous and daring rascal whom the world has ever known.  He it is who is called the ‘Scarlet Pimpernel!’”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel!” murmured Yvonne, her eyes dilated with superstitious awe, for she too had heard of the mysterious Englishman and of his followers, who rescued aristocrats and traitors from the death to which the tribunal of the people had justly condemned them, and on whom the mighty hand of the Committee of Public Safety had never yet been able to fall.

“This Scarlet Pimpernel,” said milor earnestly after a while, “is also mine own most relentless enemy.  With lies and promises he induced me to join him in his work of spying and of treachery, forcing me to do this work against which my whole soul rebels.  You can save me from this hated bondage, little one.  You can make me free to live again, make me free to love and place my love at your feet.”

His voice had become exquisitely tender, and his lips, as he whispered the heavenly words, were quite close to her ear.  He, a great gentleman, loved the miserable little waif whose kindred consisted of a blind father and two half-starved little brothers, and whose only home was this miserable hovel, whence milor’s graciousness and bounty would soon take her.

Do you think that Yvonne’s sense of right and wrong, of honesty and treachery, should have been keener than that primeval instinct of a simple-hearted woman to throw herself trustingly into the arms of the man who has succeeded in winning her love?

Yvonne, subdued, enchanted, murmured still through her tears: 

“What would milor have me do?”

Lord Kulmsted rose from his knees satisfied.

“Listen to me, Yvonne,” he said.  “You are acquainted with the Englishman’s plans, are you not?”

“Of course,” she replied simply.  “He has had to trust me.”

“Then you know that at sundown this afternoon I and the three others are to leave for Courbevoie on foot, where we are to obtain what horses we can whilst awaiting the chief.”

“I did not know whither you and the other three gentlemen were going, milor,” she replied; “but I did know that some of you were to make a start at four o’clock, whilst I was to wait here for your leader and prepare some supper against his coming.”

“At what time did he tell you that he would come?”

“He did not say; but he did tell me that when he returns he will have friends with him—­a lady and two little children.  They will be hungry and cold.  I believe that they are in great danger now, and that the brave English gentleman means to take them away from this awful Paris to a place of safety.”

“The brave English gentleman, my dear,” retorted milor, with a sneer, “is bent on some horrible work of spying.  The lady and the two children are, no doubt, innocent tools in his hands, just as I am, and when he no longer needs them he will deliver them over to the Committee of Public Safety, who will, of a surety, condemn them to death.  That will also be my fate, Yvonne, unless you help me now.”