Felix held her white little wrist in his grasp and sobbed like a child. Her very bravery and confidence seemed to unman him, utterly.
She looked at him once more. “When?” she asked, quietly, but with lips as pale as death.
“In about four months from now,” Felix answered, endeavoring to be calm.
“And they will kill us both?”
“Yes, both. I think so.”
“Together?”
“Together.”
Muriel drew a deep sigh.
“Will you know the day beforehand?” she asked.
“Yes. The Frenchman told me it. He has known others killed in the self-same fashion.”