I answered slowly. "Mademoiselle," I said, "you are a strangely wise woman. You know the value of reticence,—something few women seem to know. We have talked of many things, of ambition, of justice, of generosity, but never, never of love. Are you wise to open the past in that one matter? I have asked you no questions."
She hid her face in her hands. "But I will tell you. I was betrothed to my cousin,—to Benjamin Starling. I would not marry him now, I would not marry him now to save him from the rack. I have nothing more to tell you, monsieur."
I let the moments slip. The east was brightening, and in an hour it would be dawn. I knew we needed rest. I rose, and, standing behind the woman, bent over her.
"Mademoiselle Starling," I whispered, "tomorrow, at this time, you will be Madame Montlivet." She did not stir, and I laid my hand on her shoulder where it rose slim and sinewy as a boy's from the low neck of her squaw's dress. I bent lower. "You strange woman," I went on, marveling at her calm. "You strange woman, with the justice of a man and the tempers of a child. Have you a woman's heart, I wonder? I do not talk to you of love, but it may be that it will come to us. I will try to be good to you, Mary Starling. Carry that promise with you when I say good-night."
And then she trembled. "Wait, wait, monsieur! There is one word first. I have tried—I have tried to say it."
I knelt beside her. "What would you say to me, mademoiselle?"
But she turned away. "Monsieur, monsieur! I will marry you, yes. But it is to save your hopes,—your future. We have—we have no love. Monsieur, will you not hold me as your guest, your sister? It is I who would kneel to you, monsieur."
I pushed her down. "Sit still," I commanded. I turned my back to her, for I had no speech. She did not plead, but I could feel her tremble. I forced words out of me.
"You are a Protestant?"
"Yes, monsieur."