The Night of Madness
just past. And surely mam'selle's face was very lovely as she held it toward his—pale, glimmering in the starlight, with sweet, deep shadows where her eyes glowed, her lips a bit parted, her breath coming rapidly; and so near to him she stood that it stirred upon his cheek like a soft caress.
And he bent toward her quickly. Quickly, but not so swiftly that she might not escape; which she did with a movement as agile as a squirrel's; thereafter standing a little way from him, and laughing half-heartedly.
"Ah, m'sieur!" she reproached him for his audacity.
"I don't care!" he defied her anger. "Why will ye tempt me, Mam'selle Delphine—ye with your sweet, pretty ways, and that toss av your head that's like an invitation—though I misdoubt ye are meaning the half of it? Am I a man or—or what?—that I should be cold to ye—?"
"Ah, but you are a man, m'sieur, as you have to-night well shown!" she told him desperately. "You were asking what you could do to even our score?"
"Yes, mam'selle."
"Then, monsieur—" And now she drew nearer to him, trustingly, almost pleadingly. "Then, monsieur, you have only to continue what you set out to do—even at the risk of your life. Ah, monsieur, it is much that I ask, but—am I not to be pitied? Indeed, I am mad, quite mad with anxiety. Go, monsieur, if you would serve me—go on and save to me the little duke! Think, monsieur, what they may be doing to my son—"
"Your son—Mam'selle Delphine!"
O'Rourke jumped back as though he had been shot, then stood stock-still, transfixed with amazement, "Your son!" he cried again.
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