Then started back, a look of terror on her face--a look of awful fear and apprehension--seeing what she did see in her lover's eyes as she sought them.
"My God!" she half whispered, half shrieked, shuddering, "what--what is it? Martin, my love? Oh, what--what has happened?"
For his lips were cold, there was no answering warmth in them as they met hers; his face was white as death, his eyes dull and filmy.
"It--it--is not much. But--I--am struck. As we left the place above, a bullet--through the window--struck me. I--I--can go no farther. Alas, I can not stand," while as he spoke he swayed heavily against the middle pillar of the crypt, then slid, clutching at it, to the earth.
Even as he did so, even, too, as she a moment later undid his vest to seek for the wound, there came to her ears, though perhaps not to his as he lay there faint and almost insensible, the sound of many rushing feet, a heavy trampling; then, next, men passing swiftly by and farther on through the fosse--men whose smoke-grimed faces (sometimes, too, their wounded faces) she recognised as the moonbeams flickered on them. Camisards fleeing hastily, dispersing as Cavalier had said. The Camisards in whose power she had once been, in whose company she had but a few hours ago descended from the mountains.
"O God!" she moaned, "are they pursued by Montrevel's troops? If so, and he, my love, is found here by those troops!"
But he was not all unconscious; he could still hear, and, hearing, understood that moan.
"Nay, dearest," he whispered back, "even so it matters not. The Protestants, these men, are our friends. Baville's pass, the packet he bade me give you on our wedding morn--alas, our wedding morn!--will hold us safe from the soldiers. Fear not, ma mie."
Baville! The name stung her like an adder's fang. Baville! The man who had slain her father, and then endeavoured by a false, pretended love, to take that father's place! The man she would never see again, had vowed, as deeply as one so gentle as she could vow, never to see or know again.
Baville! And he had written to her, sent her a packet. Her lover had it about him at this moment. What could such a thing mean? What import? Yet, yet she upbraided herself for thinking of her own griefs and sorrows now at such a time as this. Baville! Faugh! Baville! Yet if he knew to what a pass they had come, knew that this man whose life might be ebbing slowly from him now, was ebbing slowly, was here? If he knew that he who had saved her was dying? Baville! The man whom once she had loved with a daughter's love.