"What," he asked, the softness of his face all gone, his glance one of contemptuous disdain, "do you desire of me? Is my hour come, and are you here to show me the way to the scaffold? Is that the reason of your presence?" and as he spoke he rose from the pallet and stood before the other.
"Nay, nay," replied Baville, veiling his handsome face with the end of his cloak, as though he feared his emotion might be too palpable. "But--but--I have judged you too hastily. I have learned that but now. Have indeed misjudged you. All pointed, all evidence pointed, to one thing: that, by treachery unparalleled, you were the betrayer of Urbaine--to her death."
For a moment the clear eyes of Martin, all traces of slumber vanished from them, looked into the equally clear ones of Baville with a glance that the latter could scarce fathom. Then Martin said, quietly: "And you believed that evidence? Believed that I, whom you had made welcome to your hearth, had made known to your child, should do that!"
"Almost I was forced to believe," Baville answered, his voice thick and hoarse, his eyes lowered to the ground. "You were in the mêlée, the attack upon the escort. You were at the Château St. Servas, and she too was there. After that massacre--I--I--was compelled to believe."
"Do you still believe?"
"No," the other answered, his voice still broken, his eyes still on the ground.
"What has changed your belief against the evidence you speak of?"
"You murmured her name but now in your slumbers, spoke of her as your love. Is she that? Do you love--her?"
"Yes, I love her. Before all, beyond all else in this world, I love her." Then he turned his face away from Baville and whispered low: "Urbaine, oh, Urbaine!"
The dawn had come now, saffron-hued, bright with the promise of a fair day; had come stealing in through the œillet high up in the wall. Through the cross of the œillet the morning sun streamed, also throwing one ray athwart the features of the two men standing there face to face.