"Cavalier!" Baville exclaimed recoiling, his face a picture of suspicion and doubt. "With Cavalier! Under the charge of Cavalier! My God! They will slaughter her! And you profess to love her!"
"She is safe; as safe as in your own arms. They will protect her."
"Protect her! Protect her! They! Protestants, like yourself!"
"Yes, Protestants, like myself. And, as they believe, nay, as they know, perhaps as you yourself know, Protestants like--Urbaine Ducaire!"
Through the thick moted sunbeams that swept from the œillet across the dusty room, passing athwart of Baville's face, Martin saw a terrible change come into that face. Saw the rich olive turn to an ashen hue, almost a livid hue; saw the deep, soft eyes harden and become dull.
"They know," he whispered, "they know that! That Urbaine is--a--Protestant? How--can--they--know--it?"
"One of their seers, a woman, divined it, proclaimed her no papist. And Cavalier has discovered those who knew her father, Urbain Ducaire."
"My God!"