“Oh, I dare say she was not offended—what woman would have been?—but she was certainly red to the ears most of the time. Few maidens, I fancy, have been treated to such a continuous stretch of love-making.”
I reddened, too, at thought of it.
“What she has suffered on my account!” I murmured.
“I tell you she did not suffer in the least,” repeated Marigny. “You permitted her to see to the very bottom of your soul, and she saw no image there except her own!”
“She knew that from the first,” I said sadly; “that does not alter matters. No; there is no way out, M. de Marigny. I can never hope to marry her—honor forbids it—an oath not to be broken. She herself has pointed that out to me in the clearest way. She has shown me what a coward I was when, for a moment, I permitted my love for her to blind me to my duty; and I know how she hates a coward. That is the real meaning of this message, monsieur; she is afraid even yet that I may not be brave enough.”
Marigny had risen and stood looking down at me with a queer little smile upon his lips.
“Ah, M. de Tavernay,” he said at last, “I understand now why that blow on the head failed to kill you.”
With which cryptic utterance he left the room.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE PATH OF HONOR.
At dawn two days later I took horse for Poitiers with clothes and equipage furnished me by M. de Marigny, who had been exceedingly kind to me from the first, though delighting to speak in riddles, from which he seemingly drew vast amusement. For myself, I was not in vein to be amused. I had fought my battle, and I had won it; I had set forward on the path of honor; but the victory had left a wound still raw and bleeding.