So it came that a strange procession marched up the Gaspereau Ridge, through the bleak twilight. And the hilltop drew swiftly near—and my last few minutes sped—and I was dumb. Still, she was at my side. And perhaps my silence spoke. But when we crossed the ridge, and the chapel prison appeared, and Yvonne’s house some way apart, my tongue found speech;—but not argument, only wild entreaties, adorations, words that made her body tremble, though not, alas! her will.
At length she stopped.
“You must go back to them now, Paul. I will go on alone. Good-by, dear!”
“But we are not near the house,” I stammered.
“Monsieur Anderson may come out to meet me. If he sees you now, before I change my conditions, how shall I escape the instant fulfilment of my promise?”
“But I am not safe, surely,” I argued.
“His testimony can at once make you safe,” said she.
My heart dropped, feeling the truth of her words. I could say nothing that I had not already said. Feeling impotent, feeling that utter defeat had been hurled upon me in the very moment of triumph, my brain seemed to stop working.
“What will you do?” was all that came through my dry lips.
She had grown much older in the last hour.