“You serve your country at a greater risk than do the soldiers of your King,” I said. “There is no courage like that which discounts a sordid, unhonored death. You have my respect, mademoiselle.”
“Sylvia!” murmured the young Countess, incredulously; “you a spy?—here—under my roof?”
Sylvia unconsciously stretched out one hand toward her.
Eyre stepped to her side, with an angry glance at Madame de Vassart.
“I—I love you, madame,” whispered Sylvia. “I only place my own country first. Can you forgive me?”
The Countess stood as though stunned; Eyre passed her slowly, supporting Sylvia to the door.
“Madame,” I said, “will you speak to her? Your countries, not your hearts, are at war. She did her duty.”
“A spy!” repeated the Countess, in a dull voice. “A spy! And she brings this—this shame on me!”
Sylvia turned, standing unsteadily. For a long time they looked at each other in silence, their eyes wet with tears. Then Eyre lifted Sylvia’s hand and kissed it, and led her away, closing the door behind. 361
The Countess still stood in the centre of the room, transfixed, rigid, staring through her tears at the closed door. With a deep-drawn breath she straightened her shoulders; her head drooped; she covered her face with clasped hands.