Up and up they scrambled, Selden and the countess, pausing now for breath, now to look at a traceried window, where once, perhaps, Beatrix of Savoy had leaned to toss a flower to her sweet troubadour, Blacasette—up and up, until they came out upon what had been the floor of the donjon, but was now a wide platform open to the sky.
And as they looked around, it seemed that the whole world lay at their feet.
At one side of the platform, facing the sea, stood a rude bench.
“Let us sit down,” said Selden, then got out his pipe, filled it deliberately, lighted it and took a long puff. “Now,” he added, “I am ready for the story.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE COUNTESS IN ACTION
FOR a moment the Countess Rémond did not speak, and Selden could see that her thoughts were turned inward, as though seeking some starting-point, some end to get hold of in the unravelling of a tangled web. He did not suspect that, realizing her moment was at hand, she was gathering her forces to meet it and casting a final glance over her plan of campaign.
“Why did you send for me last night?” he prompted.
“I wanted to thank you.”
“Yes—but there was something else.”
“I was going to implore your assistance in saving a people’s freedom,” she answered, smiling as if at her own impulsiveness.