“My love!” she murmured.
She was leaning back in the carriage and her eyes were closed, but she felt that firm fingers removed the irons from her wrists, and that a pair of warm lips were pressed there in their stead.
“There, little woman, that’s better so—is it not? Now let me get hold of poor old Armand!”
It was Heaven, of course, else how could earth hold such heavenly joy?
“Percy!” exclaimed Armand in an awed voice.
“Hush, dear!” murmured Marguerite feebly; “we are in Heaven you and I—”
Whereupon a ringing laugh woke the echoes of the silent night.
“In Heaven, dear heart!” And the voice had a delicious earthly ring in its whole-hearted merriment. “Please God, you’ll both be at Portel with me before dawn.”
Then she was indeed forced to believe. She put out her hands and groped for him, for it was dark inside the carriage; she groped, and felt his massive shoulders leaning across the body of the coach, while his fingers busied themselves with the irons on Armand’s wrist.
“Don’t touch that brute’s filthy coat with your dainty fingers, dear heart,” he said gaily. “Great Lord! I have worn that wretch’s clothes for over two hours; I feel as if the dirt had penetrated to my bones.”