"I seek my life! I am pursued! I am at your mercy! I am innocent! Can you save me?"
As he spoke, the door of the outer room beyond was heard to open, and steps and voices were at hand.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, recoiling as he recognised her face. "And is it to you that I have fled?"
Eugenie also recognised the stranger; and there was something in their relative positions—the suppliant, the protectress—that excited both her imagination and her pity. A slight colour mantled to her cheeks—her look was gentle and compassionate.
"Poor boy! so young!" she said. "Hush!"
She withdrew her hand from his, retired a few steps, lifted a curtain drawn across a recess—and pointing to an alcove that contained one of those sofa-beds common in French houses, added in a whisper,—
"Enter—you are saved."
Morton obeyed, and Eugenie replaced the curtain.
CHAPTER XIII.
GUIOMAR.
"Speak! What are you?"