“On our wedding morning, sir, you should be mercifully disposed towards all men.”
“We never class traitors as men,” and his fine face grew stern for an instant, “they are vampires, birds of prey. A detail has been sent for to take him to court-martial; there is little doubt what the result will be, and––”
“Suppose,” and she glanced up at him with a pretty appeal in her eyes, “that your wife, sir, should ask as a first favor on her wedding day that you be merciful, as the rules of war allow you to be, to this poor fellow who danced with us last night? Even supposing he is most horribly wicked, yet he really did dance with us––danced very well, and was very amusing. So, why not grant him another day of grace? No?” as he shook his head. “Well, Monsieur, I have a fancy ill luck must come if you celebrate our wedding day by hastening a man to meet his death. Let him remain here under guard until tomorrow?”
He shook his head, smilingly.
“No, Judithe.”
“Not even for me?”
“Anything else, sweetheart, but not that. It is really out of my power to delay, now, even if I wished. The guard will come for him some time this evening. I, myself, shall leave at dawn tomorrow; so, you see!––”
She glanced at him in playful reproach, a gay irresponsible specimen of femininity, who would ignore a man’s treason because he chanced to be a charming partner in the dance.
“My very first request! So, Monsieur, this is how you mean to love, honor and obey me?”