“I would do anything for you--either kill or pardon, but you will not let me,” he answered, with the first touch of passion. He had led round to his object cunningly; but not so cunningly that she did not understand him. “Yet I _may_ ask you,” she replied. “Prove to me his unworthiness first; and then----” she stopped. “What then?” “You cannot prove it, monsieur,” she cried, as though she had first wavered in her faith and then rallied it. And so he read her words. “He is what I have said, an innocent and gallant gentleman.” “If he be Gerard de Cobalt he is a murderer of the vilest and most treacherous type. I have the fullest proofs.” “But if he be not M. de Cobalt?” “Then he has shown himself a spy; and spies when they are caught must take their chances. But he is more than a spy.” “How?” “He has deceived you with specious lies, has won upon you until the scene below to-day showed your feelings. You are the head of a noble house, mademoiselle, whose influence here in Morvaix is too great to be at the mercy of either a treacherous scoundrel or a hireling spy. And while you remain unmarried and at his mercy, because of your gentle trustful heart and of the feeling he has stirred within you, such a man cannot be at large. The interests of all in Morvaix render it impossible.” “Again you make the strange suggestion that this is done for my sake,” said Gabrielle. “And it is true, Gabrielle. Were it not for you, the prisoner might go free this moment.” Every word spoken was now chosen to bring him nearer to his object. “But if he be the unworthy man you say, do you hold me for a thing too feeble and weak to withstand his evil influence?” “Worthy or base, it is as I say. His freedom rests on you.” “In plainer words?” “Consent to do as I have asked you, and the man’s fate is for you to determine. As my wife, Gabrielle, your lightest wish would be my law.” “And if I still refuse?” His answer was a shrug of the shoulders and a lifting of the hands. He looked for another storm to burst; and was surprised when Gabrielle remained quiet, cold and thoughtful. He read the sign to be favourable to him. Hitherto she would not even listen. He felt the strength of the weapon he wielded, and was glad. She paused as if in deep distress and fear, and sighed as she asked-- “Do you think such a union as you suggest could bring happiness to either of us, or having such a beginning could end in aught but ruin to all?” “I love you, Gabrielle; that will suffice for all,” he declared passionately. “Spare me that, I beg of you,” she cried quickly and very earnestly. “When you spoke of this to me before, I answered you out of my indignation. I am cooler now; but can you not think how such a declaration sounds to me? It is not one jot less terrible because I school myself to listen without temper. Can you not feel what treachery it is to my dearest friend, your wife--surely the purest wife ever given to a man?”