“Or me!”—steadily. “Remember always that you are an Englishman—that you are your father’s son—that you are my friend—and that your duty to God comes first. For your mother’s sake, bear patiently. Don’t make matters worse by useless anger. And—think how she will be praying for you!”
Denham could hardly say the words. Roy’s lips quivered.
“Yes, I will! Only, if you could get me off!”
“My dear boy, if they would take me in your stead——”
“Den, I’m so sorry! I’m not frightened, you know—only it’s horrid to have to go! Just when you’ve come and all! And it would have been so jolly! And it’s such a bother for you, too! I do wish I hadn’t done it!”
Ten minutes later the two started—Roy under the gendarme-escort, Ivor keeping pace with them.
Lucille then hastened away on her sorrowful mission, leaving a message with old M. Courant, in case either Colonel or Mrs. Baron should return during her absence—not the same message for Mrs. Baron as for the Colonel.
Half-an-hour’s search brought her into contact with the latter, and she poured forth a breathless tale. Heavier and heavier grew the cloud upon his face. He knew too well the uses that might be made of Roy’s boyish escapade. At the sound of that dread word—“Bitche”—a grey shadow came.
“Captain Ivor went with Roy to the citadel. He ought not—he has been so suffering all day—but he would not let Roy go alone. And he asked, would you follow them as soon as possible? For me, I will find Mrs. Baron, and will stay with her.”
The Colonel muttered words of thanks, and went off at his best speed.