“Jeanne,” stammered La Salle.
“Sieur de la Salle, I was just going to my room.”
She moved away from him to the side of the hearth, as he advanced and sat down upon the bench. Unconscious that she stood while he was sitting, as if overcome by sudden blindness he reached toward her with a groping gesture.
“Take hold of my hand, Sainte Jeanne.”
“And if I take hold of your hand, Sieur de la Salle,” murmured the girl, bending toward him though she held her arms at her sides, “what profit will it be to either of us?”
“I beg that you will take hold of my hand.”
Her hand, quivering to each finger tip, moved out and met and was clasped in his. La Salle’s head dropped on his breast.
Jeanne turned away her face. Voices and laughter jangled in the room below. In this silent room pulse answered pulse, and with slow encounter eyes answered the adoration of eyes. In terror of herself Jeanne uttered the whispered cry,—
“I am afraid!”
She veiled herself with the long sleeve of her robe.