“The French are recruiting Moorish soldiers——” and she got no further, for Paul sprang up from his chair, his face one flame of hope.
“Marguerite!” he cried, in a thrilling voice, and then sank down again with his face buried in his arms. “Marguerite!” he whispered, and the tenderness and gratitude with which the utterance of her name was winged, she caught into her memories and treasured there against the solitude which was to come.
She moved round the table and laid her hand upon his bowed head and let it slip and rest upon his heaving shoulder.
“So the thought has been in your mind too, Paul?” she said, with a smile.
“Yes.”
“And for a long time?”
“Yes.”
“And you would not speak it. No! I must find that way out for myself,” she said, gently chiding him, “lest you should seem to wish at all costs to be rid of me.” She walked away from his side and drew a chair up to the table opposite to him.
“Let us be practical,” she said, very wisely, though her eyes danced. “It would be possible for you to enlist without being recognised?”
Paul lifted his head and nodded: