The temptation for those few brief seconds was overwhelming, and 'twas fortunate that he stood in shadow, else she had seen signs of an awful conflict in that young and handsome face which she had been wont to see so gentle and so placid. But he knew that in her, pride had by now absolutely got the upper hand: sorrow had laid down her arms and constituted herself a prisoner of war, following meekly behind the triumphal chariot of her conquering rival.
And because of that, because he knew that there was not one spark yet in her heart which Love had kindled, that Love itself was still lying dormant within her, gagged and bound even in his sleep, kept in subjection thus pinioned and helpless by masterful self-will and by obstinate pride, he would not yield to the temptation of culling the Dead Sea fruit, that would inevitably turn to ashes, even as his lips first tasted its fleeting, if intoxicating savour.
She had half risen from her chair leaning across the bureau, eager, excited, tremulous, sure of victory. Paper and pen lay close to her hand, smiling she pointed to these:
"Oh! I pray you, milor," she said with passionate fervour, "do not delay! Every hour, every minute is precious . . . I swear to you that I'll find a messenger. He'll not know the purport of his errand. . . . Oh! I assure you I'll play the part of indifference to perfection! . . . The packet to the commander of Le Monarque will seem of the most insignificant kind. . . . I'll not even order the messenger to hurry . . . just to guard the packet as inviolate as any secret of State. . . . Nay! hundreds of such messages have to be trusted to indifferent hands, in the course of a single transaction of the nation's business. Believe me, milor, there is not cause for fear! Le Monarque can put to sea within an hour of receiving my orders, and Prince Charles Edward Stuart and his friends will be safely out of reach, ere Le Levantin unfurls her sails, and pins to her masthead the pennant of traitors. . . ."
"But you do not speak, milor," she said suddenly changing the tone of her voice, all eagerness gone from her manner, a strange, nameless anxiety gripping her heart, "will you not do this little I ask? . . ."
"It is impossible, Madame," he said curtly.
"Impossible? . . . Why? . . ."
Her voice now was harsh, trenchant, as it had been when she hurled a loud insult at Gaston de Stainville through his wife. She was on her feet, tall and erect; a statue once more, white to the lips, cold and haughty, rigid too, save for the slight trembling of her hands and the tremulous quiver of her mouth when she spoke.
As he did not reply to her question, she said impatiently:
"Will you give me a reason for this unexplainable refusal, milor?"