But he did not fall, only staggered from side to side of the street like a drunken man. I watched him until he faded from sight in the gathering darkness, and then turned back to the fugitive.
She had apparently recovered from her exhaustion, for she arose as I approached and looked at me shyly. She was prettier than I had thought.
“Well, Mademoiselle,” I said, “it seems I have rid you of your pursuer. Now whither shall I conduct you? Believe me, I am wholly at your service.”
She glanced up into my face and went red, then white, then red again, and lowered her eyes in helpless confusion. Standing so, I could see her long, sooty lashes outlined against her cheek, the droop of the lids, the little nose, the shell-like ear—’twas enough to make any man play the fool. I confess, I had done it for much less.
“I do not know, Monsieur,” she stammered, at last, “where you can take me.”
“What?” I cried, astonished in my turn. “But your home, Mademoiselle; your family?”
“It is from my home that I flee,” she answered, sadly, a little break in her voice. “It is my family whom I fear.”
“But your friends?” I persisted, my heart warming towards her. “At least you have friends.”
She shook her head, and I fancied I could see the tears shining beneath the lashes.
“None who would not conceive it their duty to deliver me to my family,” she said, and stood knitting her fingers together nervously.