"I am not in the least hurt, mademoiselle."
"Ah, but if they have spared you the flogging to take your life!" she breathed.
It was not a heartening suggestion. To my astonishment, suddenly I found myself, frightened victim, striving to comfort this noblewoman for my death.
"Nay, I am not afraid. Since mademoiselle weeps over me, I can die happily."
She sprang toward me as if to protect me with her body from some menacing thrust.
"They shall not kill you!" she cried, her eyes flashing blue fire. "They shall not! Mon dieu! is Lorance de Montluc so feeble a thing that she cannot save a serving-boy?"
She fell back a pace, pressing her hands to her temples as if to stifle their throbbing.
"It was my fault," she cried—"it was all my fault. It was my vanity and silliness brought you to this. I should never have written that letter—a three years' child would have known better. But I had not seen M. de Mar for five weeks—I did not know, what I readily guess now, that he had taken sides against us. M. de Lorraine played on my pique."
"Mademoiselle," I said, "the worst has not followed, since M. Étienne did not come himself."
"You are glad for that?"