"Your hand, mademoiselle."
She did not yield it to him but held out both hands, clasped in appeal.
"Monsieur, you have always been my loving kinsman. I have always tried to do your pleasure. I thought you meant harm to the boy because he was a servant to M. de Mar, and I knew that M. de St. Quentin, at least, had gone over to the other side. I did not know what you would do with him, and I could not rest in my bed because it was through me he came here. Monsieur, if I was foolish and frightened and indiscreet, do not punish the lad for my wrong-doing."
Mayenne was still holding out his hand for her.
"I wish you sweet dreams, my cousin Lorance."
"Monsieur," she cried, shrinking back till she stood against the door-jamb, "will you not let the boy go?"
"How will you look to-morrow," he said with his unchanged smile, "if you lose all your sleep to-night, my pretty Lorance?"
"A reproach to you," she answered quickly. "You will mark my white cheeks and my red eyes, and you will say, 'Now, there is my little cousin Lorance, my good ally Montluc's daughter, and I have made her cry her eyes blind over my cruelty. Her father, dying, gave her to me to guard and cherish, and I have made her miserable. I am sorry. I wish I had not done it.'"
"Mademoiselle," the duke repeated, "will you get to your bed?"
She did not stir, but, fixing him with her brilliant eyes, went on as if thinking aloud.