CHAPTER XVIII[ToC]
ST. STANISLAUS CROOKS HIS ELBOW
Mary Virginia's voice trailed into silence and she sank back into her chair, staring somberly at the fire. Her face marked with tears, the long braids of her hair over her shoulders, she looked so like a sad and chidden child that the piteousness of her would have moved and melted harder hearts than ours.
The Butterfly Man had listened without an interruption. He sat leaning slightly forward, knees crossed, the left arm folded to support the elbow of the right, and his chin in his cupped right hand. His eyes had the piercing clear directness of an eagle's; they burned with an unwavering pale flame. Shrewder far than I, he saw the great advantage of knowing the worst, of at last thoroughly understanding Hunter and Inglesby and the motives which moved them. He had, too, a certain tolerance. These two had merely acted according to their lights; he had not expected any more or less, therefore he was not surprised now into an undue condemnation.
But the fighting instinct rose rampant in me. My hands are De Rancé hands, the hands of soldiers as well as of priests, and they itched for a weapon, preferably a sword. Horrified and astonished, suffocating with anger, I had no word at command to comfort this victim of abominable cunning. Indeed, what could I say; what could I do? I looked helplessly at the Butterfly Man, and the stronger man looked back at me, gravely and impassively.
"But what is to be done?" I groaned.
He seemed to know, for he said at once:
"Call Madame. Tell her to bring some extra wraps. I am going to take Mary Virginia home, and Madame will go with us."
"But why shouldn't she stay here?"