“But we shall die together,” I said softly, and our eyes meeting, I read the truth in hers. “Zénaïde,” I whispered, “you know that I love you?”
“Yes,” she murmured faintly, “I know it, Philippe; and still—we must die.”
“Together, sweetheart,” I replied, kissing her; “united in life and death.”
And thus our troth was plighted. And then a new terror smote us; a tiny wreath of smoke came curling in at the open door.
“They have fired the house,” Zénaïde said quietly, raising her head from my breast, and looking at me with horror growing in her eyes.
I went out at the door and looked down the hall. The odor of burning was unmistakable. I could hear the crashing of the outer door and the roar of the mob below. The fire was in the rear, and I knew that the stragglers whom I had seen leaving the crowd in front had fired the wings. I could hear the crackle of flames, even above the tumult, and the blue smoke was creeping up in thin spiral waves.
CHAPTER XXVII.
MICHAEL’S REVENGE.
Zénaïde came and stood beside me, and we watched those blue wreaths increase until the foot of the staircase was clouded, and we had to draw back for a breath of air.
“Let us go to the window, Philippe,” she said in that quiet tone which seemed to voice her despair. “It is horrible, but perhaps it is better than to perish by their hands or our own.”
“Alas, my love!” I exclaimed hoarsely, “it is but a choice of evils, and how bitter it is to die at such a time! If it were not for you, I think I could face it cheerfully—I—”