The Countess, beautiful in her pallor, and looking more angel than woman in the plain robe of blue that clothed her slight figure, met me with a face of mingled reproach, pity, and horror. Mathilde was in tears and utterly downcast. I could see at a glance how matters stood, and ere I had made two steps beyond the threshold, I stopped, abashed.
"Oh, Monsieur, the blood!" cried the Countess sadly, pointing to my doublet.
"It is that of your two guards," I said. "I am not hurt."
"I am glad you are not hurt. But oh, why did you put this bloodshed upon your soul?"
"To save you, Madame."
"Alas, I know. It is not for me to blame you—but could you think I would escape—leave the house of my husband—become a fugitive wife?"
I saw how firm she was in her resolution for all her fragility of body, and I scarce knew what to say.
"Madame, think! He is your husband, yes,—but your persecutor. Where you should have protection, you receive—this." I waved my hand about her prison. "Where you should find safety, you are in mortal danger."
"I know all that, Monsieur,—have known it from the first. But shall I play the runaway on that account? Think what you propose—that I, a wedded wife, shall fly from my husband's roof with a gentleman who is not even of kin to me! Then indeed would my good name deserve to suffer."
"But Madame, heaven knows, as I do, that you are the truest of wives."