“You are cold!” I cried. “And you have no cloak—only this thin dress. Come, we must go!”
“Go?” she questioned, looking at me, all her worry back upon her in an instant. “Yes—but whither, Monsieur? Not to my uncle’s!”
She was quite white with the horror of the thought, and I felt that her hand was trembling. I pressed it in both of mine—a child’s hand, I repeated to myself.
“No, not back to your uncle’s,” I assured her. “But you must go somewhere for the night. Could you not return to the convent?”
She breathed a deep sigh of relief and the color swept back into her cheeks again. But she shook her head in answer to my question.
“I had thought of that,” she said; “but they would deliver me again to my uncle in the morning, Monsieur.”
“True,” I murmured, and I pondered over the problem deeply. Clearly, there was only one thing to be done, but it could hardly fail to compromise her, and I paused. I had need to be very sure of myself.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, at last, “you believe me to be a man of honor, do you not?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, and she looked at me and smiled again.
“I pray you to believe me so, Mademoiselle,” I continued earnestly. “I am going to assume a brother’s right to protect you. To-morrow, I shall call upon your uncle, and will say a few things to him which I trust will bring him to his senses. But to-night, since you cannot remain in the gardens here, you must pass in my room.”