CHAPTER XIXA FACE AT THE WINDOW

CHAPTER XIXA FACE AT THE WINDOWHewas dressed as a Frenchman, with a polished silk hat and a big bow carelessly tied. For the rest, his disguise was of the slightest, yet so skilfully done that a friend would have passed him in the street. But he gave her no opportunity to express surprise at his presence there, nor at his new appearance.“Let us go where there are not so many interesting people,” he said. “I have much to say to you.”She was dizzy still, and pale and trembling. He called a waiter from a café and ordered a little glass of brandy. When she had drunk it, he began to lead her away from the cathedral towards the Rue de Kehl. Her curiosity amused him.“You see, I have no business in Strasburg,” he said lightly. “People might misunderstand me as they misunderstood that poor fellow yonder. It would be quite wrong of them—but then, I have a regard for my bones.”She shuddered.“They would kill you, Brandon!” she exclaimed.“Exactly; they would kill me. It is one of the follies of war. You beat out a man’s brains because he might be a spy. Afterwards you are sorry, but you cannot put his brains back again. Forgive me, I am only talking in general terms. We had better not particularise until we are in safer quarters.”She stopped suddenly. The peril in which he stood, and which she must in some measure share, was not to be overlooked. Many, both civilians and soldiers, were passing on their way to the Minster square. A regiment of Gardes Mobiles went by with swinging step and merry music. She knew that a word whispered to them, a word that a Prussian dragoon had entered Strasburg, would bring instant death to the man who had come into the city because of his promise to her.“You were wrong to come; I was wrong to ask you,” she said quickly. “They would never understand—never.”He laughed lightly and lit a cigarette.“We will not consult them, Beatrix,” he said; “I came here because I knew you would be anxious. You must give me your word that you will not tell one man, woman, or child in all Strasburg. It’s my only chance. Even oldHélène must not know. What isn’t known cannot be misunderstood. Don’t think I have come on my own business at all. If I was that sort of person I would not be at your side now. All that we want to learn about this place we learnt a year ago—and, of course you have been to church, Madame Lefort?”His voice and manner changed quickly as an officer of the guard elbowed him from the pavement. When the man was out of hearing he began again:“That is old Gatelet; he has dined with me at the Maison Rouge many a day. I wonder what he would say if he knew where I had been since we saw each other? It is astonishing how you forget your liking for a man when he’s on the other side, especially when the other side is winning.”Again she checked her pace to question him.“Brandon,” she said, “where are you going to now?”He shrugged his shoulders.“Anywhere, where there are no listeners. I am lodging for to-day with Madame Venier, over at the little white house there. She has one of the ministers from St. Thomas’s with her, and enough daughters to chaperone a regiment. If you would walk into her parlour—”She stamped her foot angrily.“You know that I cannot go.”“Very well, then; I’ll forget that I suggested it. But you can’t write to Edmond here at the gate.”“You think that I could write to him?”“I know that you could, for I’ll send the letter myself.”She breathed quickly, debating it. Some of the men whom she had seen in the café when the spy was struck down were coming up the street. She entered the house when she saw them, and he followed her quickly.“I have no right to come,” she protested. “Edmond would never forgive me.”“Oh, now—that’s nonsense. Why should he not forgive you? I will tell him all about it myself—when the proper time comes. Meanwhile, he is at Ulm, and will not give his parole. Persuade him to, and you may have him back in Strasburg in a week’s time. But I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s dangerous, and might lead to the unexpected. He’s living like a prince where he is, and there aren’t any bullets. There will be plenty if he comes back to Strasburg.”“I do not understand,” she said helplessly. “What is the parole he must give, and why?”He pointed to an arm-chair, and drew it up to the table for her.“It’s just this way,” he said—“but will you let me smoke? I have been about the streets all day in this Sunday best, and it’s a little heavy for the nerves.”She nodded her head quickly, while he filled the pipe and lighted it deliberately. The sense of their danger was more sure every moment that she lingered there. The horrid scene at the doors of the Minster still haunted her eyes. This man at her side might make another scene such as that—and for her sake.“I am waiting to hear about the parole,” she said.“Well,” he answered bluntly, “it’s this way. If he will promise not to bear arms against Germany for the rest of the war, they’ll send him back to you. I know Edmond well. He won’t give that promise unless you ask it. And if he gives it, and comes back to Strasburg, a week will find him on the fortifications.”“In which case?”“In which case they will shoot him when we take the city.”He did not speak boastfully, but there was behind his words asoupçonof that arrogance which victory may give even to a man incapable of common emotions. She heard him as one who neither counselled nor dissuaded her, but left everythingto her own judgment. Never had she been asked to decide a question so momentous.“You know that I cannot write it,” she exclaimed hotly; “he would think I did not wish him to return.”“Very well; but you know what you are risking. He will certainly be shot when we come in.”“Oh, my God,” she said; “what a cruel thing war is!”“To the vanquished, of course. The mischief is that our French friends never know when they are vanquished. Edmond will be like the others. He will give his word—and break it.”“I don’t believe it,” she exclaimed emphatically; “when he comes to the Place Kleber he will listen to me. I shall make it a point of honour between us. He may break his word to you, but he never will to me.”“Then write the letter now. It shall go to Ulm to-morrow. I don’t hunger for the sights of Strasburg, you may be sure. To-night will see me on the other side of the river and thankful to be there.”“Brandon,” she exclaimed, “how much I owe to you!”He laughed.“I should be a poor man if all my ledger accounts were like yours, Beatrix.”He began to pace the room that she might write uninterruptedly. For a long while she sat contemplating the white paper before her. Though she had combated his assertions, she knew in her heart that he spoke the truth, and that the letter which brought her husband back to Strasburg might also be his death-warrant. Edmond would never resist the spirit then prevailing in the city. He would go to the fortifications, and the Prussians would take him there. They would shoot him as one who had broken his parole, and hers would be the word which called him back to his doom. She could not write that word; she must leave it to his judgment, she thought. Nor could she tell him why she hesitated. Impossible to say “I fear that you will break your oath.” Rather, she wrote words of love and sympathy, narrating all that had happened at Strasburg—her meeting with her old friend, Brandon North, on the evening of the battle, the strange companion she had found upon the road, the anticipations of a siege, the news that the Prussians were at Schiltigheim. But she did not say, “Come back to me,” and there were tears in her eyes when she sealed the letter.“Well,” said Brandon, who had watched her closely, “you have finished it.”She turned away sadly.“I have flattered you by taking your opinion.”“Oh, I don’t count in the matter. But I am sure you are wise, Beatrix. Another month will finish this business. Better for him to come home then with whole bones than now—to God knows what. And you—of course, you are leaving Strasburg?”“Leaving Strasburg—why?”He shrugged his shoulders.“Because the Prussians are at Schiltigheim.”“Is that all?”He laughed—almost brutally, she thought.“Not at all; it is only the beginning. In a month there will be no Strasburg to remain in. Forgive me if I am too frank. One seems able to talk to you as one talks to no one else. I suppose it’s because we’re both English, Beatrix.”She thought that the confession was an indirect sneer at her husband; her cheeks crimsoned in resentment.“There is no other country but England?” she exclaimed ironically.“I think so,” he said simply.The great pride of his belief appealed to her. She held out her hands to him.“Edmond is your friend,” she exclaimed;“you will except him always. And I am very grateful to you, Brandon—more grateful than I can say.”He pooh-poohed her expression of thanks, and was about to take leave of her when a face, thrust close to the window, made them both draw back. It was the face of Gatelet, the officer of the National Guard, whom they had passed in the street an hour ago. Visible for an instant, it disappeared at once as Brandon turned with a startled exclamation and took a step to the window.“Gatelet—by all that’s unlucky,” he said, standing irresolute and concealing from her all that moment meant to him. She, in turn, was conscious of a tremor of excitement and a dread unlike anything she had ever known.“Oh, my God, Brandon—if he should have recognised you!”He forced a laugh, but took up his hat as he spoke.“Well,” he said, feigning merriment, “it would certainly be unpleasant, Beatrix.”“But you will leave Strasburg—now, this moment.”“Not at all—I am going for a walk to the café of the Contades.”“To tell all the city that you are here.”He began to put on his gloves.“Gatelet certainly recognised me, or he would not have come back. As he does not know my business and will not trouble himself to guess it, the odds are that he takes me for a spy. In that case I am going to give them a run for their money, Beatrix. Once the sun does me the favour to set, I shall get to Schiltigheim without trouble. Meanwhile I prefer the open—you understand.”They left the house together. There was no one before its doors. She watched him striding along the road to the gardens. She knew that he had come to the city for her sake, and she trembled when she contemplated the position in which his friendship for her had placed him.Nor could she hide it from herself that she was helping one who yesterday was, and to-morrow would be, the enemy of that country which had given her a lover and a home.

CHAPTER XIXA FACE AT THE WINDOWHewas dressed as a Frenchman, with a polished silk hat and a big bow carelessly tied. For the rest, his disguise was of the slightest, yet so skilfully done that a friend would have passed him in the street. But he gave her no opportunity to express surprise at his presence there, nor at his new appearance.“Let us go where there are not so many interesting people,” he said. “I have much to say to you.”She was dizzy still, and pale and trembling. He called a waiter from a café and ordered a little glass of brandy. When she had drunk it, he began to lead her away from the cathedral towards the Rue de Kehl. Her curiosity amused him.“You see, I have no business in Strasburg,” he said lightly. “People might misunderstand me as they misunderstood that poor fellow yonder. It would be quite wrong of them—but then, I have a regard for my bones.”She shuddered.“They would kill you, Brandon!” she exclaimed.“Exactly; they would kill me. It is one of the follies of war. You beat out a man’s brains because he might be a spy. Afterwards you are sorry, but you cannot put his brains back again. Forgive me, I am only talking in general terms. We had better not particularise until we are in safer quarters.”She stopped suddenly. The peril in which he stood, and which she must in some measure share, was not to be overlooked. Many, both civilians and soldiers, were passing on their way to the Minster square. A regiment of Gardes Mobiles went by with swinging step and merry music. She knew that a word whispered to them, a word that a Prussian dragoon had entered Strasburg, would bring instant death to the man who had come into the city because of his promise to her.“You were wrong to come; I was wrong to ask you,” she said quickly. “They would never understand—never.”He laughed lightly and lit a cigarette.“We will not consult them, Beatrix,” he said; “I came here because I knew you would be anxious. You must give me your word that you will not tell one man, woman, or child in all Strasburg. It’s my only chance. Even oldHélène must not know. What isn’t known cannot be misunderstood. Don’t think I have come on my own business at all. If I was that sort of person I would not be at your side now. All that we want to learn about this place we learnt a year ago—and, of course you have been to church, Madame Lefort?”His voice and manner changed quickly as an officer of the guard elbowed him from the pavement. When the man was out of hearing he began again:“That is old Gatelet; he has dined with me at the Maison Rouge many a day. I wonder what he would say if he knew where I had been since we saw each other? It is astonishing how you forget your liking for a man when he’s on the other side, especially when the other side is winning.”Again she checked her pace to question him.“Brandon,” she said, “where are you going to now?”He shrugged his shoulders.“Anywhere, where there are no listeners. I am lodging for to-day with Madame Venier, over at the little white house there. She has one of the ministers from St. Thomas’s with her, and enough daughters to chaperone a regiment. If you would walk into her parlour—”She stamped her foot angrily.“You know that I cannot go.”“Very well, then; I’ll forget that I suggested it. But you can’t write to Edmond here at the gate.”“You think that I could write to him?”“I know that you could, for I’ll send the letter myself.”She breathed quickly, debating it. Some of the men whom she had seen in the café when the spy was struck down were coming up the street. She entered the house when she saw them, and he followed her quickly.“I have no right to come,” she protested. “Edmond would never forgive me.”“Oh, now—that’s nonsense. Why should he not forgive you? I will tell him all about it myself—when the proper time comes. Meanwhile, he is at Ulm, and will not give his parole. Persuade him to, and you may have him back in Strasburg in a week’s time. But I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s dangerous, and might lead to the unexpected. He’s living like a prince where he is, and there aren’t any bullets. There will be plenty if he comes back to Strasburg.”“I do not understand,” she said helplessly. “What is the parole he must give, and why?”He pointed to an arm-chair, and drew it up to the table for her.“It’s just this way,” he said—“but will you let me smoke? I have been about the streets all day in this Sunday best, and it’s a little heavy for the nerves.”She nodded her head quickly, while he filled the pipe and lighted it deliberately. The sense of their danger was more sure every moment that she lingered there. The horrid scene at the doors of the Minster still haunted her eyes. This man at her side might make another scene such as that—and for her sake.“I am waiting to hear about the parole,” she said.“Well,” he answered bluntly, “it’s this way. If he will promise not to bear arms against Germany for the rest of the war, they’ll send him back to you. I know Edmond well. He won’t give that promise unless you ask it. And if he gives it, and comes back to Strasburg, a week will find him on the fortifications.”“In which case?”“In which case they will shoot him when we take the city.”He did not speak boastfully, but there was behind his words asoupçonof that arrogance which victory may give even to a man incapable of common emotions. She heard him as one who neither counselled nor dissuaded her, but left everythingto her own judgment. Never had she been asked to decide a question so momentous.“You know that I cannot write it,” she exclaimed hotly; “he would think I did not wish him to return.”“Very well; but you know what you are risking. He will certainly be shot when we come in.”“Oh, my God,” she said; “what a cruel thing war is!”“To the vanquished, of course. The mischief is that our French friends never know when they are vanquished. Edmond will be like the others. He will give his word—and break it.”“I don’t believe it,” she exclaimed emphatically; “when he comes to the Place Kleber he will listen to me. I shall make it a point of honour between us. He may break his word to you, but he never will to me.”“Then write the letter now. It shall go to Ulm to-morrow. I don’t hunger for the sights of Strasburg, you may be sure. To-night will see me on the other side of the river and thankful to be there.”“Brandon,” she exclaimed, “how much I owe to you!”He laughed.“I should be a poor man if all my ledger accounts were like yours, Beatrix.”He began to pace the room that she might write uninterruptedly. For a long while she sat contemplating the white paper before her. Though she had combated his assertions, she knew in her heart that he spoke the truth, and that the letter which brought her husband back to Strasburg might also be his death-warrant. Edmond would never resist the spirit then prevailing in the city. He would go to the fortifications, and the Prussians would take him there. They would shoot him as one who had broken his parole, and hers would be the word which called him back to his doom. She could not write that word; she must leave it to his judgment, she thought. Nor could she tell him why she hesitated. Impossible to say “I fear that you will break your oath.” Rather, she wrote words of love and sympathy, narrating all that had happened at Strasburg—her meeting with her old friend, Brandon North, on the evening of the battle, the strange companion she had found upon the road, the anticipations of a siege, the news that the Prussians were at Schiltigheim. But she did not say, “Come back to me,” and there were tears in her eyes when she sealed the letter.“Well,” said Brandon, who had watched her closely, “you have finished it.”She turned away sadly.“I have flattered you by taking your opinion.”“Oh, I don’t count in the matter. But I am sure you are wise, Beatrix. Another month will finish this business. Better for him to come home then with whole bones than now—to God knows what. And you—of course, you are leaving Strasburg?”“Leaving Strasburg—why?”He shrugged his shoulders.“Because the Prussians are at Schiltigheim.”“Is that all?”He laughed—almost brutally, she thought.“Not at all; it is only the beginning. In a month there will be no Strasburg to remain in. Forgive me if I am too frank. One seems able to talk to you as one talks to no one else. I suppose it’s because we’re both English, Beatrix.”She thought that the confession was an indirect sneer at her husband; her cheeks crimsoned in resentment.“There is no other country but England?” she exclaimed ironically.“I think so,” he said simply.The great pride of his belief appealed to her. She held out her hands to him.“Edmond is your friend,” she exclaimed;“you will except him always. And I am very grateful to you, Brandon—more grateful than I can say.”He pooh-poohed her expression of thanks, and was about to take leave of her when a face, thrust close to the window, made them both draw back. It was the face of Gatelet, the officer of the National Guard, whom they had passed in the street an hour ago. Visible for an instant, it disappeared at once as Brandon turned with a startled exclamation and took a step to the window.“Gatelet—by all that’s unlucky,” he said, standing irresolute and concealing from her all that moment meant to him. She, in turn, was conscious of a tremor of excitement and a dread unlike anything she had ever known.“Oh, my God, Brandon—if he should have recognised you!”He forced a laugh, but took up his hat as he spoke.“Well,” he said, feigning merriment, “it would certainly be unpleasant, Beatrix.”“But you will leave Strasburg—now, this moment.”“Not at all—I am going for a walk to the café of the Contades.”“To tell all the city that you are here.”He began to put on his gloves.“Gatelet certainly recognised me, or he would not have come back. As he does not know my business and will not trouble himself to guess it, the odds are that he takes me for a spy. In that case I am going to give them a run for their money, Beatrix. Once the sun does me the favour to set, I shall get to Schiltigheim without trouble. Meanwhile I prefer the open—you understand.”They left the house together. There was no one before its doors. She watched him striding along the road to the gardens. She knew that he had come to the city for her sake, and she trembled when she contemplated the position in which his friendship for her had placed him.Nor could she hide it from herself that she was helping one who yesterday was, and to-morrow would be, the enemy of that country which had given her a lover and a home.

Hewas dressed as a Frenchman, with a polished silk hat and a big bow carelessly tied. For the rest, his disguise was of the slightest, yet so skilfully done that a friend would have passed him in the street. But he gave her no opportunity to express surprise at his presence there, nor at his new appearance.

“Let us go where there are not so many interesting people,” he said. “I have much to say to you.”

She was dizzy still, and pale and trembling. He called a waiter from a café and ordered a little glass of brandy. When she had drunk it, he began to lead her away from the cathedral towards the Rue de Kehl. Her curiosity amused him.

“You see, I have no business in Strasburg,” he said lightly. “People might misunderstand me as they misunderstood that poor fellow yonder. It would be quite wrong of them—but then, I have a regard for my bones.”

She shuddered.

“They would kill you, Brandon!” she exclaimed.

“Exactly; they would kill me. It is one of the follies of war. You beat out a man’s brains because he might be a spy. Afterwards you are sorry, but you cannot put his brains back again. Forgive me, I am only talking in general terms. We had better not particularise until we are in safer quarters.”

She stopped suddenly. The peril in which he stood, and which she must in some measure share, was not to be overlooked. Many, both civilians and soldiers, were passing on their way to the Minster square. A regiment of Gardes Mobiles went by with swinging step and merry music. She knew that a word whispered to them, a word that a Prussian dragoon had entered Strasburg, would bring instant death to the man who had come into the city because of his promise to her.

“You were wrong to come; I was wrong to ask you,” she said quickly. “They would never understand—never.”

He laughed lightly and lit a cigarette.

“We will not consult them, Beatrix,” he said; “I came here because I knew you would be anxious. You must give me your word that you will not tell one man, woman, or child in all Strasburg. It’s my only chance. Even oldHélène must not know. What isn’t known cannot be misunderstood. Don’t think I have come on my own business at all. If I was that sort of person I would not be at your side now. All that we want to learn about this place we learnt a year ago—and, of course you have been to church, Madame Lefort?”

His voice and manner changed quickly as an officer of the guard elbowed him from the pavement. When the man was out of hearing he began again:

“That is old Gatelet; he has dined with me at the Maison Rouge many a day. I wonder what he would say if he knew where I had been since we saw each other? It is astonishing how you forget your liking for a man when he’s on the other side, especially when the other side is winning.”

Again she checked her pace to question him.

“Brandon,” she said, “where are you going to now?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Anywhere, where there are no listeners. I am lodging for to-day with Madame Venier, over at the little white house there. She has one of the ministers from St. Thomas’s with her, and enough daughters to chaperone a regiment. If you would walk into her parlour—”

She stamped her foot angrily.

“You know that I cannot go.”

“Very well, then; I’ll forget that I suggested it. But you can’t write to Edmond here at the gate.”

“You think that I could write to him?”

“I know that you could, for I’ll send the letter myself.”

She breathed quickly, debating it. Some of the men whom she had seen in the café when the spy was struck down were coming up the street. She entered the house when she saw them, and he followed her quickly.

“I have no right to come,” she protested. “Edmond would never forgive me.”

“Oh, now—that’s nonsense. Why should he not forgive you? I will tell him all about it myself—when the proper time comes. Meanwhile, he is at Ulm, and will not give his parole. Persuade him to, and you may have him back in Strasburg in a week’s time. But I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s dangerous, and might lead to the unexpected. He’s living like a prince where he is, and there aren’t any bullets. There will be plenty if he comes back to Strasburg.”

“I do not understand,” she said helplessly. “What is the parole he must give, and why?”

He pointed to an arm-chair, and drew it up to the table for her.

“It’s just this way,” he said—“but will you let me smoke? I have been about the streets all day in this Sunday best, and it’s a little heavy for the nerves.”

She nodded her head quickly, while he filled the pipe and lighted it deliberately. The sense of their danger was more sure every moment that she lingered there. The horrid scene at the doors of the Minster still haunted her eyes. This man at her side might make another scene such as that—and for her sake.

“I am waiting to hear about the parole,” she said.

“Well,” he answered bluntly, “it’s this way. If he will promise not to bear arms against Germany for the rest of the war, they’ll send him back to you. I know Edmond well. He won’t give that promise unless you ask it. And if he gives it, and comes back to Strasburg, a week will find him on the fortifications.”

“In which case?”

“In which case they will shoot him when we take the city.”

He did not speak boastfully, but there was behind his words asoupçonof that arrogance which victory may give even to a man incapable of common emotions. She heard him as one who neither counselled nor dissuaded her, but left everythingto her own judgment. Never had she been asked to decide a question so momentous.

“You know that I cannot write it,” she exclaimed hotly; “he would think I did not wish him to return.”

“Very well; but you know what you are risking. He will certainly be shot when we come in.”

“Oh, my God,” she said; “what a cruel thing war is!”

“To the vanquished, of course. The mischief is that our French friends never know when they are vanquished. Edmond will be like the others. He will give his word—and break it.”

“I don’t believe it,” she exclaimed emphatically; “when he comes to the Place Kleber he will listen to me. I shall make it a point of honour between us. He may break his word to you, but he never will to me.”

“Then write the letter now. It shall go to Ulm to-morrow. I don’t hunger for the sights of Strasburg, you may be sure. To-night will see me on the other side of the river and thankful to be there.”

“Brandon,” she exclaimed, “how much I owe to you!”

He laughed.

“I should be a poor man if all my ledger accounts were like yours, Beatrix.”

He began to pace the room that she might write uninterruptedly. For a long while she sat contemplating the white paper before her. Though she had combated his assertions, she knew in her heart that he spoke the truth, and that the letter which brought her husband back to Strasburg might also be his death-warrant. Edmond would never resist the spirit then prevailing in the city. He would go to the fortifications, and the Prussians would take him there. They would shoot him as one who had broken his parole, and hers would be the word which called him back to his doom. She could not write that word; she must leave it to his judgment, she thought. Nor could she tell him why she hesitated. Impossible to say “I fear that you will break your oath.” Rather, she wrote words of love and sympathy, narrating all that had happened at Strasburg—her meeting with her old friend, Brandon North, on the evening of the battle, the strange companion she had found upon the road, the anticipations of a siege, the news that the Prussians were at Schiltigheim. But she did not say, “Come back to me,” and there were tears in her eyes when she sealed the letter.

“Well,” said Brandon, who had watched her closely, “you have finished it.”

She turned away sadly.

“I have flattered you by taking your opinion.”

“Oh, I don’t count in the matter. But I am sure you are wise, Beatrix. Another month will finish this business. Better for him to come home then with whole bones than now—to God knows what. And you—of course, you are leaving Strasburg?”

“Leaving Strasburg—why?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Because the Prussians are at Schiltigheim.”

“Is that all?”

He laughed—almost brutally, she thought.

“Not at all; it is only the beginning. In a month there will be no Strasburg to remain in. Forgive me if I am too frank. One seems able to talk to you as one talks to no one else. I suppose it’s because we’re both English, Beatrix.”

She thought that the confession was an indirect sneer at her husband; her cheeks crimsoned in resentment.

“There is no other country but England?” she exclaimed ironically.

“I think so,” he said simply.

The great pride of his belief appealed to her. She held out her hands to him.

“Edmond is your friend,” she exclaimed;“you will except him always. And I am very grateful to you, Brandon—more grateful than I can say.”

He pooh-poohed her expression of thanks, and was about to take leave of her when a face, thrust close to the window, made them both draw back. It was the face of Gatelet, the officer of the National Guard, whom they had passed in the street an hour ago. Visible for an instant, it disappeared at once as Brandon turned with a startled exclamation and took a step to the window.

“Gatelet—by all that’s unlucky,” he said, standing irresolute and concealing from her all that moment meant to him. She, in turn, was conscious of a tremor of excitement and a dread unlike anything she had ever known.

“Oh, my God, Brandon—if he should have recognised you!”

He forced a laugh, but took up his hat as he spoke.

“Well,” he said, feigning merriment, “it would certainly be unpleasant, Beatrix.”

“But you will leave Strasburg—now, this moment.”

“Not at all—I am going for a walk to the café of the Contades.”

“To tell all the city that you are here.”

He began to put on his gloves.

“Gatelet certainly recognised me, or he would not have come back. As he does not know my business and will not trouble himself to guess it, the odds are that he takes me for a spy. In that case I am going to give them a run for their money, Beatrix. Once the sun does me the favour to set, I shall get to Schiltigheim without trouble. Meanwhile I prefer the open—you understand.”

They left the house together. There was no one before its doors. She watched him striding along the road to the gardens. She knew that he had come to the city for her sake, and she trembled when she contemplated the position in which his friendship for her had placed him.

Nor could she hide it from herself that she was helping one who yesterday was, and to-morrow would be, the enemy of that country which had given her a lover and a home.

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