“Roxalanne,” I resumed presently, when I was more master of myself, “we have been good friends, you and I, since that night when I climbed for shelter to your chamber, have we not?”
“Ten days ago it is. Think of it--no more than ten days. And it seems as if I had been months at Lavedan, so well have we become acquainted. In these ten days we have formed opinions of each other. But with this difference, that whilst mine are right, yours are wrong. I have come to know you for the sweetest, gentlest saint in all this world. Would to God I had known you earlier! It might have been very different; I might have been--I would have been--different, and I would not have done what I have done. You have come to know me for an unfortunate but honest gentleman. Such am I not. I am under false colours here, mademoiselle. Unfortunate I may be--at least, of late I seem to have become so. Honest I am not--I have not been. There, child, I can tell you no more. I am too great a coward. But when later you shall come to hear the truth--when, after I am gone, they may tell you a strange story touching this fellow Lesperon who sought the hospitality of your father's house--bethink you of my restraint in this hour; bethink you of my departure. You will understand these things perhaps afterwards. But bethink you of them, and you will unriddle them for yourself, perhaps. Be merciful upon me then; judge me not over-harshly.”
I paused, and for a moment we were silent. Then suddenly she looked up; her fingers tightened upon mine.
“Monsieur de Lesperon,” she pleaded, “of what do speak? You are torturing me, monsieur.”
“Look in my face, Roxalanne. Can you see nothing there of how I am torturing myself?”
“Then tell me, monsieur,” she begged, her voice a very caress of suppliant softness,--“tell me what vexes you and sets a curb upon your tongue. You exaggerate, I am assured. You could do nothing dishonourable, nothing vile.”
“Child,” I cried, “I thank God that you are right! I cannot do what is dishonourable, and I will not, for all that a month ago I pledged myself to do it!”
A sudden horror, a doubt, a suspicion flashed into her glance.
“You--you do not mean that you are a spy?” she asked; and from my heart a prayer of thanks went up to Heaven that this at least it was mine frankly to deny.