“But why should you?”
The Comte’s face flushed slightly.
“One who loves would not regard such an enterprise as a peril.”
The eyes of the woman kindled. She approached the Comte. He caught her hand and kissed it.
“Trust in the Comte de Mousqueton,” he breathed.
It was late when the Comte came from the prison house. The village seemed asleep, but another than himself was abroad. The figure of a man in a cloak was issuing from the neighboring house.
“You walk late, M. Capeluche,” said the Comte. “But it is well, for Mlle. Bonacieux wishes to speak with you.”
The headsman stopped abruptly to peer into the eyes of the young nobleman. The act was insolent.
“Is M. le Comte,” he inquired, coldly, “sufficiently in the confidence of his fair prisoner to advise me what it is she desires?”