She shivered a little in my arms and then pressed forward towards me.
"I am Valerie," she murmured in a low voice, as though I would recognise the name. "My brother is dead; François the steward killed him. Oh, take me away—take me from this place."
I told her that I would do so, that my only desire was to escape from the house if I could.
"But, mademoiselle," said I, "every door is locked. I cannot find the way, and the brigands are returning. We have no time to lose."
The tidings appeared to rouse her. She passed her hand across her forehead and, staggering forward a little way, stood very still as though in thought.
I shall never forget that picture of her as the moonbeams came down from the dome above, and she stood there in a robe of white and silver. A more beautiful thing I have never seen upon God's earth. The story of her brother's death appeared no longer a mystery.
"My God!" she cried, "they are in the house!"
We bent over the balustrade together and listened to the sounds. There was a crashing as of woodwork, and then the hum of voices. Instantly upon that there came the heavy trampling of feet. Those who entered the house were not afraid—they were even laughing as they came.
"What shall we do?" she cried. "What shall we do?"
I caught her hand and dragged her back from the railing.