“Oh, my father,” she murmured.
“You understand; these men are Frenchmen, and there is war between France and England; there is no need to explain their mission here, nor the reason of secrecy where they are concerned. When they have accomplished their intention they will depart; we shall not see them again, but now, while they are here, one must be discreet.”
For a long time Alaine sat with her chin resting in her two hands. At last she spoke: “If I consent to this, you will permit me to send a note to Michelle and M. Mercier to explain that I am safe. They have been very good to me, peasants though you call them.”
“You shall certainly do so if it be no more than a note, and if it does not compromise these your present entertainers.”
The girl arose to her feet. “Then, monsieur, if you see me at the edge of the wood to-morrow morning it will be because I consent; otherwise I shall have no object in going forth to tread an unknown way. I will retire.”
He seized her hand and pressed a kiss upon it, and Alaine shuddered. “I will send Marie to you. Good-night, sweet Alaine,” he murmured.
Slowly Alaine ascended the stairs and entered her room. The sound of the revellers came up from below-stairs. The girl knelt before the open window. Somewhere beneath the stars her father, a wretched slave, was resting. Conform? She would never do that; perhaps, after all, she need not. Yet, the nunnery, the ever-vigilant watchers, the loss of liberty. Alas! alas! there would be worse than all that. If she, of her own accord, by her own efforts, could win her father’s release, how hard she would work. She would appeal to her friends; perhaps they could help her. “My father, my father,” she sighed, “if I but knew what to do.” She leaned her forehead on the window-sill, and back to her remembrance came those peaceful days at home in France before those hours of terror threatened her; then came the recollection of the quiet dwelling in New Rochelle, the good pious parents, the simple, earnest, happy ways. “I know now,” she said, rising. “No one, not even my father, would have me seem to renounce my faith for any material good, nor have me live a lie. Die will I, and die must my father, but we will not, we cannot be treacherous to our friends nor our faith. This man, what do I know of him? How can I tell what designs induce his fair promises? No, no; I dare not trust myself in his hands. I do not know much of the world, but I have distrusted him from the first. He may never try to liberate my father once he wins me from my friends; he may be making these fair promises but as a ruse to tempt me away.”
Marie’s soft step aroused her from her thoughts. There was an angry glitter in the woman’s eyes. “Marie, Marie,” cried Alaine, pleadingly, “I am a lonely, friendless girl; be good to me this night.” Suddenly she slipped the silver chain from her neck, and, stooping, tore the buckles from her shoes. “See, see,” she whispered, “I will give you these if you will help me to escape. I do not want to go with François Dupont; I do not want to go back to France. Oh, Marie, you are a woman, save me.”
The woman’s brown fingers touched the silver ornaments caressingly. “Marie like zis,” she said. “She no like you go wis François Dupont. Marie sink you lof zis man, ees it so, yes?”
“No, no, I love only my own dear people, and I must go back to them. Oh, if I could but reach them on the other side of Long Point, could be sure that they and I were safe! If I could but get home again away from all this! Marie! Marie! help me, and anything I have is yours.”