"I think he loved you, Jeanne."
"He said so; not then, but when he first came to me. It was horrible to hear love spoken of by any man but you. He threatened me, Richard. I thought he meant what he said."
"He did when he said it," Barrington answered. "He came to me, demanding that I should urge you to marry him."
"And you refused?"
"Yes, and yet—ah, Jeanne, I hardly know what I should have urged. The thought of the guillotine for you made me afraid."
"It would have been easier than marrying any other man," she whispered. "Something, perhaps something you said, Richard, changed Latour. He evidently arranged my escape. Sabatier came early yesterday with these clothes. He told me to dress myself in them. Think of it, Richard! I walked through the streets with him like this, into a house in some alley, where we waited until it was dusk. Then we rode to the barrier. I was some horrible wretch thirsting for blood, young as I was; I do not know what Sabatier said, but even the men at the barrier shuddered at me and turned away."
Barrington laughed and held her closer.
"Then we rode here. We came by the Sceaux road, Sabatier said. This lonely place made me afraid. It was so unlikely you would find me here. Then I wondered whether you were dead. You have always seemed to come to me when I was in need, and this time—oh, it seemed so long, so hopeless! Now I want to cry and laugh both at once."
"You have no fear of the journey before us?" Barrington whispered.
"Fear! With you!"