"I do what I can," she said, "yield me the justice to allow that. I am giving you a chance to return to her. There—take it—now you are armed!"
She gave him the knife, and the sheath from which she had drawn it in her uncle's bureau.
"And now, bid me farewell—no thanks—I do not want them! You will not, I know, forget me, and I only ask you to pray that I may be able to forget you!"
The Abbé John stooped to kiss her hand, but she snatched it behind her quickly.
"I think I deserve so much," she said softly, holding up her face, "not even she would deny me!"
And the Abbé John, quieting his soul by the vow of necessity, future confession, and absolution, kissed Valentine la Niña.
She gave one little sobbing cry, and would have fallen, had he not caught her. But she shook him off, striking angrily at his wrist with her clenched hand.
"No! No! No!" she cried; "go—I bid you—go, do not heed me. I am well. They may be here any moment. They are ever on the watch. It cannot be long. Go. I am repaid. She has never risked as much for you! Lock the door without!"
And she pushed him into the street, shut the door, and fell in a white heap fainting behind it, as John d'Albret turned the key outside.