"Is that strange?" he asked, gently.
"Yes; I have often wished to cry. I never could—except once before—and that was four days ago."
The day of their quarrel! He thrilled from head to foot, but dared not speak.
"Four days ago," said Lorraine again. She thought of herself gliding from her bed to seek the stable where Jack's horse stood, she thought of her hot face pressed to the wounded creature's neck. Then, suddenly aware of what she had confessed, she leaned back and covered her face with her hands.
"Lorraine!" he whispered, brokenly.
But they were already at the Château.
"Lorraine, my child!" cried Madame de Morteyn, leaning from the terrace. Her voice was drowned in the crash of drums rolling, rolling, from the lawn below, and the trumpets broke out in harsh chorus, shrill, discordant, terrible.
The Emperor had arrived at Morteyn.