"Come," I said, "be brave. In a few hours you will be safe." And I placed my hand on her shoulder. At my touch she collected herself, and rose once again, her face pale, her eyes wet.
"Monsieur," she said, "I cannot take your offer. It is impossible."
"But why?" And I looked at her in blank astonishment.
"Listen!" And she spoke in low but quick accents. "Were I to avail myself of this chance I know I should be safe, for the bravest heart in France would be protecting me. But, monsieur, I should be saving myself and leaving the others—my people, those of my own faith—to die. I am a woman, and a woman may be forgiven weakness in this—for death, and such a death, is horrible—but could I forgive myself? I who knew, and fled, and left my people to die! Do you know who all are in Paris? There are scores of them. There is kind old De Mouy, there is Rochambeau, there is D'Albain, there are fifty more. Are they to die? Besides these there are the poorer brethren, rich in nothing but their faith. Are they to die? Can I leave them, without a word of warning, to the torture, to the rack, to the slow death of the estrapade?"
She stopped, her eyes all alight, her breath coming fast; but I made no answer, and stood before her in silence.
"You have nothing to say," she went on—"nothing! Orrain, were you in my place what would you do?"
"I am a man."
"And is honour less dear to a woman than to a man?"
I knew she was brave, but never before had I realised how brave and strong; and, yielding to an impulse I could not resist, I bent down and touched her hand with my lips.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "you have taught me what is right. You cannot go thus. Your friends must be warned."