"There is a late rose lingering there," she said, a slight tremor in her voice. "I cannot reach it. Will you pluck it for me, M. de Berault?"
I obeyed her, my hand trembling, my face on fire. She took the rose from me, and placed it in the bosom of her dress. And I saw that her hand trembled too, and that her cheek was dark with blushes.
She turned at once, and began to walk towards the house. Presently she spoke. "Heaven forbid that I should misjudge you a second time!" she said, in a low voice. "And, after all, who am I that I should judge you at all? An hour ago, I would have killed that man had I possessed the power."
"You repented, Mademoiselle," I said huskily. I could scarcely speak.
"Do you never repent?"
"Yes. But too late, Mademoiselle."
"Perhaps it is never too late," she answered softly.
"Alas, when a man is dead--"
"You may rob a man of more than life!" she replied with energy, stopping me by a gesture. "If you have never robbed a man--or a woman--of honour! If you have never ruined boy or girl, M. de Berault! If you have never pushed another into the pit and gone by it yourself! If--but for murder? Listen. You may be a Romanist, but I am a Huguenot, and have read. 'Thou shalt not kill!' it is written; and the penalty, 'By man shall thy blood be shed!' But, 'If you cause one of these little ones to offend, it were better for you that a mill-stone were hanged about your neck, and that you were cast into the depths of the sea."
"Mademoiselle, you are too merciful," I muttered.