She was clad in a grey-velvet riding dress, that revealed every curve of her faultless figure, silhouetted as she was against the semi-darkness of the corridor behind. Upon the clustering golden hair that framed her face was set the daintiest of three-cornered riding hats. But how to describe her beauty I know not. Words are but poor things at best, and how can I, a plain soldier, depict with justice that upon which the painters and poets of Europe have lavished the finest efforts of their genius! This only will I say: That in the proud poise of the lovely head, upon the haughty, glowing face, with its rich colouring heightened by her recent ride, was stamped the pride of birth and conscious beauty.
Oh, she was beautiful! A woman for the sake of whom a man might give his life and count it less than naught. A woman to gain whose love a man might sell his soul!
“I am waiting, sir!” she cried impatiently, as speechless I stood before her, dazzled by her beauty. Her voice was rich, if a trifle imperious; her every movement instinct with a womanly grace. Descending the steps, she stood facing me not ten paces distant. And I saw her eyes—eyes of a dusky, violet hue flash ominously as she took in the details of the scene. Doubtless, splashed with mud as we were from head to heel, our clothes sodden with the wet, our faces streaked with scratches where the brambles had torn us—we must have appeared like denizens of the Pit itself.
Her words recalled me to myself with a start.
“Madam,” I stammered—and my voice sounded hoarse even to my own ears—“I crave your pardon for so intruding, but—That window is guarded, M. de Launay!” I broke off sharply.
He gave in at that.
“Pest!” he said with a shrug. “You think of everything, monsieur! I call you to witness, however, that I had given you no parole. Have you come out against me with an army?”
“I am too old a campaigner, monsieur,” I replied curtly, “to leave aught to chance.”
“Address yourself to me, sir!” my lady cried imperiously, “and in as few words as possible.”
I turned to where she stood, one gauntletted hand daintily upholding her trailing skirt. In the other she carried a short riding whip.