He tried to rise, but fell back helpless. “You are ill!” she cried in quick alarm; and glancing at the torture implements, which showed gaunt and gruesome in the slanting rays of the moonlight, she caught her breath and added--“They have not dared----” “No, no. It is but the rush of blood through my numbed veins. It will pass in a moment.” She sighed in relief and then cut loose the roll. “A ladder of fine silk rope that will reach to the courtyard below,” she exclaimed, as she laid it on the pallet, while Gerard was chafing his arms and legs. He glanced at the window bars. “They can be moved,” she added, catching the look; and gave him rapidly a description of the place. “Another devil’s trick, indeed,” he muttered, with a frown; and watched her while she sought for the spring to release the bars. Before she found it he had regained the use of legs and arms, and went to her help. “I have it,” she said at length, and pressed upon it with all her strength while he tugged at the bars. Success soon crowned their efforts, and then a place was found where the grappling hooks of the ladder could be fastened. “Now the way is clear,” said Gerard. “Not yet. There is a guard below. But we have done our part so far. Your friend, whom you call Pascal, will be here soon--should be here now indeed, to surprise the man and clear the path for you below. He will come in by the breach made for the repair of the walls, and he has friends posted there. Look if you can see anything of him. Cautiously, or the moonlight on your face may betray you.” Gerard peeped from the casement. “There is no sign of Pascal. There is a guard below; he is leaning on his musket just underneath this spot. Listen!” Listening almost breathlessly, the sounds from below came up. They heard the soldier stamping his feet as if chilled with the night air; then his musket was grounded; and a moment later the stillness was broken as he began to sing in a sweet tenor voice the ballad which Lucette was fond of carolling-- “There was a maiden in Arcady Whose lover both feal and true, Came riding forth from the sullen north Her sweet white hand to woo.” As the simple words were borne to their ears they both smiled. “Apt words,” whispered Gerard gently, as he captured Gabrielle’s hand and carried it to his lips. “How shall I thank you, Gabrielle?” “You are not yet free, monsieur,” she answered, withdrawing her hand. “Monsieur?” he whispered. “Was it not you who once reproved me for calling you mademoiselle?” “If I think of you as Gerard, yet do I not know how to call you now.” “I am Gerard, in truth.” “Oh, I am so glad,” and she sighed. “And sigh for gladness?” “Sigh partly for gladness--that is a woman’s way, Gerard; yet not all for gladness, but partly in fear lest even now this plan of ours should in some way miscarry. Your Pascal lingers, and yet I urged him so. Pray look again.”