Bellamy stood thoughtfully silent.
“I am not sure that you are wise,” he said. “You take it too much for granted that the end has come.”
“And do you not yourself believe it?” she demanded. He hesitated.
“As yet there is no proof,” he reminded her.
“Proof!”
She sat upright in her chair. Her hands thrust him from her, her bosom heaved, a spot of color flared in her cheeks.
“Proof!” she cried. “What do you suppose, then, that these wolves have plotted for? What else do you suppose could be Austria’s share of the feast? Couldn’t you hear our fate in the thunder of their voices when that miserable monarch rode back to his captivity? We are doomed—betrayed! You remember the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, a blood-stained page of history for all time. The world would tell you that we have outlived the age of such barbarous doings. It is not true. My friend David, it is not true. It is a more terrible thing, this which is coming. Body and soul we are to perish.”
He came over to her side once more and laid his hand soothingly on hers. It was heart-rending to witness the agony of the woman he loved.
“Dear Louise,” he said, “after all, this is profitless. There may yet be compromises.”
She suffered her hand to remain in his, but the bitterness did not pass out of her face or tone.