"I know where I want to be, but I hope I have n’t got there," said the young man, coming closer. "And why is that, Citizen?" He made a quick impatient gesture. "Oh, a little less of the Citizen, my dear. I know I ’m an ugly devil, but do I look like a Jacobin?" Aline was amazed at his recklessness. "Monsieur is a very imprudent person," she said warningly. "Monsieur would like to know where he is," responded the young man, laughing. She fixed her eyes on him. "You are at Rancy-les-Bois, Monsieur." He bit his lip, made a half turn, and indicated the blackened ruins above them. "And this?" "This is, or was, the Château de Montenay." In a minute all the freckles seemed to be accentuated by the pallor of the skin below. The hand that held the cane gripped it until the knuckles whitened. He stared a minute or two at the faintly rising vapour that told of heat not yet exhausted, and then said sharply: "When was it burned?" "Ten days ago." "Any—lives—lost?" "It is believed so," said Aline, watching him. He put his hand to his face a moment, then let it fall, and stood rigid, his queer eyes suddenly tragic, and Aline could not forbear any longer. "Marguerite is safe," she cried quickly and saw him colour to the roots of his hair. "Marguerite—mon Dieu! I thought she was gone!" and with that he sat down on the coping, put his head down upon his arms, and a long sobbing breath or two heaved his broad shoulders in a fashion that at once touched and embarrassed Aline. She drew nearer and watched uneasily, her own breathing a little quicker than usual. A woman’s tears are of small account to a woman, but when a man sobs, it stirs in her the strangest mixture of pity, repulsion, gentleness, and contempt. "She is quite safe," she repeated nervously, whereupon the young man raised his head, exclaiming in impulsive tones: "And a thousand blessings on you for saying it, my dear," whilst in the same moment he slipped an arm about her waist, pulled her a little down, and before she could draw back, had kissed her very heartily upon the cheek. It had hardly happened before she was free, and a yard away, with her head up, and a look in her eyes that brought him to his feet, flushing and bowing. "I ask a thousand pardons," he stammered. "Indeed if it had been the blessed Saint Bridget herself that gave me that news, I ’d have kissed her, and meant no disrespect. For it was out of hell you took me, with the best word I ever heard spoken. You see, when I found Marguerite gone with that old mad lady, her aunt, I was ready to cut my throat, only I thought I ’d do more good by following her. Then when I saw these ruins, my heart went cold, till it was all I could do to ask the name. And when you said it, and I pictured her there under all these hot cinders—well, if you ’ve a heart in you, you ’ll know what I felt, and the blessed relief of hearing she was safe. Would n’t you have kissed the first person handy yourself, now?"