"Ah, you don't know," she said sadly. Then she caught my hand again and whispered hurriedly and fearfully: "I'm afraid, Simon. I—I fear him. What can I do? How can I resist? They can do what they will with me, what can I do? If I weep, they laugh; if I try to laugh, they take it for consent. What can I do?"
There is nothing that so binds a man to a woman as to feel her hand seeking his in weakness and appeal. I had thought that one day so Barbara's might seek mine and I should exult in it, nay, might even let her perceive my triumph. The thing I had dreamed of was come, but where was my exultation? There was a choking in my throat and I swallowed twice before I contrived to answer:
"What can we do, you mean, Mistress Barbara."
"Alas, alas," she cried, between tears and laughter, "what can we—even we—do, Simon?"
I noticed that she called me Simon, as in the old days before my apostacy and great offence. I was glad of it, for if I was to be of service to her we must be friends. Suddenly she said,
"You know what it means—I can't tell you; you know?"
"Aye, I know," said I, "none better. But the Duke shan't have his way."
"The Duke? If it were only the Duke—Ah!" She stopped, a new alarm in her eyes. She searched my face eagerly. Of deliberate purpose I set it to an immutable stolidity.
"Already he's very docile," said I. "See how M. de Perrencourt turned and twisted him, and sent him off crestfallen."