THERE was no answer, but before he called again a tall figure in a black cloak ran from the doorway and hurried toward him.
"Césaire! . . . Césaire!" were the only words she spoke. She clung against him, the metal of his bright cuirass pressing her lovely, soft body. For a time Césaire kissed her passionately and at length, without a word, she led him away from the house to the pleached walk that led from the château garden down to the river. They walked sadly with arms encircling each other's waists.
"I have but a moment," said the Baron. "At most, ten minutes. I have no right even to that."
She told him that Madame Gigon was dying. She explained that old Pierre had not appeared to help them to escape and that he would have been of no use since it was impossible to move her companion. And, when she had wasted three precious minutes in these explanations, she said, "You need not worry for me . . . I shall be quite safe. . . . If only I could be as certain of you."
At this he laughed softly, reassuring her and pulling his fierce mustachios in warlike fashion.
"You need not fear for me," he said. "I have had such great luck . . . always." And he looked at her closely with shining eyes.
Then they sat for a time in silence, clinging closely to each other. Presently he took off his helmet and rested it in her lap allowing her to twist her fingers in and out among the long black hair of the plume.
"And Jean," she said, after atime. "He is with you?"
"He is with me. He passed with the others beneath your window. He sent you his love. He would have come too, but he knew it was unsoldierly to break the ranks. . . . He is a good
