He drew the message from his breast, leaned across and handed it to her.
“Why, what is this, Monsieur?”
“Read it and see.” And he busied himself with the tangled mane of his horse. When they had ridden several yards, he heard her voice.
“Here, Monsieur.” The hand was extended, but the face was averted.
“Countess, you are too charming a woman to lend yourself to such schemes.”
There was no reply.
“Did you not volunteer to make me fall in love with you to keep me from interfering with Madame's plans?” It was brutal, but he was compelled to say it.
Silence.
“Did you not?” he persisted. “When one writes such messages as these, one should use an intricate cipher. Had I been other than a prisoner, what I have done would not be the act of a gentleman. But I am a prisoner; I must defend myself. To rob a man through his love! And such a man! He is a very infant in the hands of a woman. He has been a soldier all his life. All women to him are little less than angels; he knows nothing of their treachery, their deceit, their false smiles. It will be an easy victory, or rather it would have been, for I shall do my best to prevent it. Madame is not unknown to me; I have been waiting to see what meant this peculiar house party.
“Perhaps I am now too late. Madame distrusts me. I dare say she has her reasons. She went to you. You were to occupy me. I was young, I liked the society of women, I was gay and careless. She has decked me out as one would deck a monkey (and doubtless she calls me one behind my back), and has offered me a sword to play with.