“Paul,” she said, joining her hands together upon her breast in appeal. “I want you to do something—for me. You can walk safely through the streets. Dressed as you are, no one will know you. No one will suspect you. If you are spoken to, you can answer. You are Ben Sedira the Meknasi. I want you to go at once to the Protected quarter.”
“Why, Marguerite?”
“You can rejoin your battalion.”
“No.”
“Oh, you can, Paul! You can make yourself known. They will let you through their barricades.”
“It is too late,” said Paul.
Marguerite would not accept the quiet statement.
“No,” she pleaded, her eyes eager, her mouth trembling. “I have been thinking it out, my dear, up there on the roof. You can make an excuse. You were seized yesterday night after you had visited the Headquarters. You were pulled from your horse. You were kept imprisoned and escaped to-night.”
Paul shook his head.
“No one would believe that story, Marguerite. The people of Fez are making no prisoners.”