“But neither may I,” she objected.
“Ah, I am sure you will; in fact, mademoiselle, I suspect that you see so clearly that you fear to wound me. But to refuse to help me would be to wound me far more deeply.”
“Well, then,” she said, a little hoarsely, “since you will have it so, I must tell you that to my mind your betrothed has the first claim upon you. Not until you have fulfilled your engagement with her,—the engagement for which your father has your word,—is your life your own to cherish or throw away; not even then, for surely she will have some claim upon it.”
“Not so great a claim as my country,” I protested.
“Perhaps not,” she assented; “but at present her claim is greater than your country’s. To desert her would be to dishonor her; a betrothal is a sacred thing, almost as sacred as marriage itself. To break it, to cast it aside, to disregard it even for a time, would be cowardly and ignoble. You must go on to Poitiers. That way lies the path of honor.”
She spoke with a simple, fearless, deep sincerity which moved me strangely. Ah, here was a woman! Here was a woman!
“You are right, mademoiselle,” I said, and bent and kissed her hand. “A thousand times right. I thank you.”
Then with such agony at my heart that I knew not whither I went, I turned and left her.
CHAPTER VI.
EVE IN THE GARDEN.
But that clear voice recalled me ere I had taken a dozen steps.