The Countess de Va.s.sart had come up to where I was standing on the gargoyle, balanced over the gulf below. Very cautiously I began to step backward, for there was not room to turn around.

"Would you care to look at the Pigeonnier, madame?" I asked, glancing at her over my shoulder.

"I beg you will be careful," she said. "It is a useless risk to stand out there."

I had never known the dread of great heights which many people feel, and I laughed and stepped backward, expecting to land on the parapet behind me. But the point of my scabbard struck against the battlements, forcing me outward; I stumbled, staggered, and swayed a moment, striving desperately to recover my balance; I felt my gloved fingers slipping along the smooth face of the parapet, my knees gave way with horror; then my fingers clutched something--an arm--and I swung back, slap against the parapet, hanging to that arm with all my weight. A terrible effort and I planted my boots on the leads and looked up with sick eyes into the eyes of the Countess.

"Can you stand it?" I groaned, clutching her arm with my other hand.

"Yes--don't be afraid," she said, calmly. "Draw me toward you; I cannot draw you over."

"Press your knees against the battlements," I gasped.

She bent one knee and wedged it into a niche.

"Don't be afraid; you are not hurting me," she said, with a ghastly smile.

I raised one hand and caught her shoulder, then, drawn forward, I seized the parapet in both arms, and vaulted to the slate roof.

A fog seemed to blot my eyes; I shook from hair to heel and laid my head against the solid stone, while the blank, throbbing seconds past.

The Countess stood there, shocked and breathless. I saw her sleeve in rags, and the snowy skin all bruised beneath.

I tried to thank her; we both were badly shaken, and I do not know that she even heard me. Her burnished hair had sagged to her white neck; she twisted it up with unsteady fingers and turned away. I followed slowly, back through the dim galleries, and presently she seemed to remember my presence and waited for me as I felt my way along the pa.s.sage.

"Every little shadow is a yawning gulf," I said. "My nerve is gone, madame. The banging of my own sabre scares me."

I strove to speak lightly, but my voice trembled, and so did hers when she said: "High places always terrify me; something below seems to draw me. Did you ever have that dreadful impulse to sway forward into a precipice?"

There was a subtle change in her voice and manner, something almost friendly in her gray eyes as she looked curiously at me when we came into the half-light of an inner gallery.

What irony lurks in blind chance that I should owe this woman my life--this woman whose home I had come to confiscate, whose friends I had arrested, who herself was now my prisoner, destined to the shame of exile!

Perhaps she divined my thoughts--I do not know--but she turned her troubled eyes to the arched window, where a painted saint imbedded in golden gla.s.s knelt and beat his breast with two heavy stones.

"Madame," I said, slowly, "your courage and your goodness to me have made my task a heavy one. Can I lighten it for you in any manner?"

She turned towards me, almost timidly. "Could I go to Morsbronn before--before I cross the frontier? I have a house there; there are a few things I would like to take--"

She stopped short, seeing, doubtless, the pain of refusal in my face.

"But, after all, it does not matter. I suppose your orders are formal?"

"Yes, madame."

"Then it is a matter of honor?"

"A soldier is always on his honor; a soldier's daughter will understand that."

"I understand," she said.

After a moment she smiled and moved forward, saying:

"How the world tosses us--flinging strangers into each other's arms, parting brothers, leading enemies across each other's paths! One has a glimpse of kindly eyes--and never meets them again. Often and often I have seen a good face in the lamp-lit street that I could call out to, 'Be friends with me!' Then it is gone--and I am gone--Oh, it is curiously sad, Monsieur Scarlett!"

"Does your creed teach you to care for everybody, madame?"

"Yes--I try to. Some attract me so strongly--some I pity so. I think that if people only knew that there was no such thing as a stranger in the world, the world might be a paradise in time."

"It might be, some day, if all the world were as good as you, madame."

"Oh, I am only a perplexed woman," she said, laughing. "I do so long for the freedom of all the world, absolute individual liberty and no law but that best of all laws--the law of the unselfish."

We had stopped, by a mutual impulse, at the head of the stone stairway.

"Why do you shelter such a man as John Buckhurst?" I asked, abruptly.

She raised her eyes to me with perfect composure.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I have come here from Paris to arrest him."

She bent her head thoughtfully and laid the tips of her fingers on the sculptured bal.u.s.trade.

"To me," she said, "there's no such thing as a political crime."

"It is not for a political crime that we want John Buckhurst," I said, watching her. "It is for a civil outrage."

Her face was like marble; her hands tightened on the fretted carving.

"What crime is he charged with?" she asked, without moving.

"He is charged with being a common thief," I said.

Now there was color enough in her face, and to spare, for the blood-stained neck and cheek, and even the bare shoulder under the torn c.r.a.pe burned pink.

"It is brutal to make such a charge!" she said. "It is shameful!--"

her voice quivered. "It is not true! Monsieur, give me your word of honor that the government means what it says and nothing more!"

"Madame," I said, "I give my word of honor that no political crime is charged against that man."

"Will you pledge me your honor that if he answers satisfactorily to that false charge of theft, the government will let him go free?"

"I will take it upon myself to do so," said I. "But what in Heaven's name is this man to you, madame? He is a militant anarchist, whose creed is not yours, whose propaganda teaches merciless violence, whose programme is terror. He is well known in the faubourgs; Belleville is his, and in the Chateau Rouge he has pointed across the river to the rich quarters, calling it the promised land! Yet here, at La Trappe, where your creed is peace and non-resistance, he is welcomed and harbored, he is deferred to, he is made executive head of a free commune which he has turned into a despotism ... for his own ends!"

She was gazing at me with dilated eyes, hands holding tight to the bal.u.s.trade.

"Did you not know that?" I asked, astonished.

"No," she said.