The Palace of Dust
She looked up and deep into his face; read the trouble there, and the courage; divined how steadfast was his loyalty to his people—the English-speaking people—as well as how futile would be her most desperate blandishments, directed against his simple honesty.
She put out her hands with a little, hopeless gesture—like a tired child.
"I am defeated," she admitted, smiling almost wanly. "What I have told you is true, monsieur. I learned that you were to die for Prince Vladislaus' indiscretion. He spoke more freely than he had warrant to speak. Granted, monsieur, that you pledged your word to silence. And yet—"
"A Russian judges all men by himself," laughed O'Rourke.
"Yes. So you were doomed. Yet, it was considered better that you should be won to our cause, if possible, rather than slain. I—I had marked your admiration of me, monsieur; I volunteered to—to bring you to the side of safety and of our cause. … Monsieur"—unconsciously she lowered her voice. O'Rourke drew nearer; he even dared possess himself of her hands, and to hold them firmly while he stood bending his head that he might catch what she was whispering.
"Monsieur," she said again; and hesitated for a long time; so long, indeed, that the silence began to seem strained and tense, and O'Rourke's ears were filled with the creak and the rustle of the, stillness in this deserted palace.
"Monsieur," she -whispered finally, "you have won. You are … right."
She lifted her eyes boldly to his; O'Rourke's breath came sharply.
"I am glad—very glad!" she declared aloud.
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