“I am Gaston de Trincardel,” he repeated, unmoved.
“Oh, why do you tell me this? At such a time...” she moaned, and I stepped to her side, for her cry went to my heart.
“I tell you this because I must try to bring you to your senses. Why are you here in disguise? A shameful disguise,” he repeated, scornfully. “Whose hand slew this man before us?”
“Mine!” I interrupted, for I could not stand by and see her meet his attack alone.
“Why are you here beside one who may be little better than a murderer?” he continued to her, without heeding me in the least.
“Sir, you are free to put any construction on my act you choose, as I cannot make you answer for your words,” I interrupted again.
“One from whom I have striven with all my power as a priest to keep you?” he went on, still ignoring me. “Since that has failed, I must try and appeal to your gratitude towards her who was your protector when you were but a girl. In some sense I stand as her representative, and I charge you by her memory to renounce this last folly which has led you here.”
“Stop, Gaston!” she cried. “Every word you say would be an insult did it come from another. But I have too high a reverence for you as a priest, the remembrance of your unfailing charity is too strong, to answer except by an explanation. Never mind appearances! I am here in this disguise because it afforded the only possible escape from the town, and my object is to carry word to M. de Lévis that everything within the walls is in the most complete disorder, the garrison is mad with drink, and he has but to march on the town at once to effect its capture.”
“Are you dreaming?—the town helpless?”
“Yes, it is his, if he can but advance without delay.”