"And--and "--whispered Baville now, the voice, usually so rich and sweet, still blurred with emotion, almost indistinct, "and she loves--returns--your love?"
"Yes," Martin answered, "yes."
"Has told you so?"
"Ay, with her own sweet lips to mine." Then suddenly, his tone changed, speaking loudly, clearly, he exclaimed: "Man, you can not rob me of that! Make one more victim of me in your shambles if you will, yet, as I die, my last word, my last thought, shall be of Urbaine. My recompense, her hate and scorn of you."
"No, no, no!" Baville exclaimed, his hands thrust out before him as though groping for something he could not touch, or as though to fend off the denunciation of the other. "No, no, not that. Never that. You must be saved--for--for her sake. For Urbaine. She is my life, my soul. Sorrow must never come anigh her again. Already I have done--O God!--have done her wrong. Enough. Listen. You will be tried to-day, condemned as an English spy; the De Maintenon has said it----"
"The De Maintenon!"
"Ay! You are the heir to the wealth of the de Rochebazons--to much of it. You are English. It is enough. Tried, I say, condemned! Yet you shall be saved. Here, in Languedoc, I am Louis. I am France," and once more Baville was himself, erect, strong, superb. "It shall be done--it--it--it; there must be no sorrow," he repeated, "for Urbaine."
"You forget one thing--the Church."
"The Church! Bah! Theirs is a sentimental power; mine is effective, actual. You must be saved. I am Louis, the King, here. Shall be recalled for what I do; be broken, ruined. Yet, until recalled, the King. Go to your trial, but say nothing. Refuse to plead; that shall suffice." Then changing the subject, he said eagerly, feverishly almost, "Where is she? Where have you left her?"
"In the mountains. Under the charge of Cavalier."