"Let me go forth, Jocelyne! farewell!" repeated La Mole.
"Mother!" again commenced the unhappy girl, throwing herself down to clasp the knees of her grandmother, who, overcome by the violence of her feelings, had sunk back again into her chair. "Mother! would your husband, or your son, have driven even their deadliest enemy from their door?"
"Speak not of my son, girl; or you will drive me mad!" cried Perrotte, clasping her hands before her face.
Jocelyne sprang up with a look of despair, and returned to detain once more La Mole.
As they thus stood, and before the old woman had again stirred, or Alayn interfered, a rumour from the street formed by the bridge, caught the ear of the excited girl.
"What is that?" she exclaimed, starting in alarm.
"The agents of the Queen-mother sent in my pursuit, probably," replied La Mole coolly, and disengaging himself from the convulsive embrace of Jocelyne. "How they have tracked me, I know not. So be it, then. I had hoped for the sake of others to avoid their hands; but I am prepared to meet my fate."
"No, no," screamed Jocelyne. "It cannot be! Mother—mother, would you see him made a prisoner in your own house—murdered, perhaps, before your very face!"
Alayn moved towards the door; and the girl sprang to intercept him.
"Would you be so base? Would you have me hate you?" cried the poor girl in despair, to her cousin.