Perhaps she had been more herself than he knew, for, as he supported her head, her hand stole over his and held it fast. Full of consternation, perplexity, and anger as he was, he could not but feel a softening pity towards a creature so devoted, so entirely at his mercy. At the moment when she lay helpless against him, gasps heaving her breast under her manly doublet, her damp hair spread on his knees, her dark eyes in their languor raised imploring his face, her cold hand grasping his, he felt as if this great love were a reality, and as if he were hunting a shadow; and, as if fate would have it so, he must save and gratify one whose affection must conquer his, who was so tender, so beautiful—even native generosity seemed on her side. But in the midst, as in his perplexity he looked up over the gray sea, he seemed to see the picture so often present to his mind of the pale, resolute girl, clasping her babe to her breast, fearless of the advancing sea, because true and faithful. And at that thought faith and prayer rallied once again round his heart, shame at the instant’s wavering again dyed his cheek; he recalled himself, and speaking the more coldly and gravely because his heart was beating over hotly, he said, ‘Cousin, you are better. It is but a little way to Nissard.’
‘Why have you saved me, if you will not pity me?’ she murmured.
‘I will not pity, because I respect my kinswoman who has save our lives,’ he said steadying his voice with difficulty. ‘The priests of Nissard will aid me in sparing your name and fame.’
‘Ah!’ she cried, sitting up with a start of joy, ‘but he would make too many inquiries! Take me to England first.’
Berenger started as he saw how he had been misunderstood.
‘Neither here nor in England could my marriage be set aside, cousin. No; not priest shall take charge of you, and place you in safety and honour.’
‘He shall not!’ she cried hotly. ‘Why—why will you drive me from you—me who ask only to follow you as a menial servant?’
‘That has become impossible,’ he answered; ‘to say nothing of my brother, my servant and the guide have seen;’ and, as she remembered her streaming hair, and tried, in dawning confusion, to gather it together, he continued: ‘You shrank from the eye of the King of Navarre. You cannot continue as you have done; you have not even strength.’
‘Ah! have you sailed for England,’ she murmured.
‘It had only been greater shame,’ he said. ‘Cousin, I am head of your family, husband of your kinswoman, and bound to respect the reputation you have risked for me. I shall, therefore, place you in charge of the priest till you can either return to your aunt or to some other convent. You can ride now. We will not wait longer in these wet garments.’