He bent above her, nearer, till his face was on a level with her own, and his eyes drew hers to meet them. And his were full of all sweet and poignant things—love and home, and trust, and protection—they were warm and kind, and she so cold, and so afraid. It seemed as if her soul must go out to him, or be torn in two. Suddenly her fear of him had changed into fear of her own self. Did a Rochambeau mate thus? She saw the red steel, wet with the King’s life, the steel weighted by the word of this man, and his fellows. She saw the blood gush out and flow between them in a river of separation. To pass it she must stain her feet—must stain her soul, with an uncleansable rust. It could not be—Noblesse oblige. She caught her hand from his and put it quickly over her eyes. "No, no, no—oh no, Monsieur," she cried, in a trembling whisper. He recoiled at once, the light in his face dying out. "It is no, for always?" he asked slowly. She bent her head. "For always, and always, and always?" he said again. "All the years, all the ways wanting you—never reaching you? Think again, Aline." She rested her hand against the door and took a step away. It was more than she could bear, and a blind instinct of escape was upon her, but he was beside her before she could pass out. "Is it because I am what I am, Jacques Dangeau, and not of your order?" he asked, in a sharp voice. The change helped her, and she looked up steadily. "Monsieur, one has obligations—you said it just now." "Obligations?" "And loyalties—to one’s order, to one’s King." "Louis Capet is dead," he said heavily. "And you voted for his death," she flashed at him, voice and eye like a rapier thrust. He raised his head with pride. "Yes, Mademoiselle, I voted for his death." "That is a chasm no human power can bridge," she said, in a level voice. "It lies between us—the King’s death, the King’s blood. You cannot pass to come to me—I may not pass to come to you." There was an infinite troubled loneliness behind the pride in her eyes, and it smote him through his anger. "Adieu, Mademoiselle," he said in a low, constrained voice. He neither touched her hand, nor kissed it, but he bowed with as much proud courtesy as if he had been her equal in pride of race. "Adieu, Mademoiselle." "Adieu, Monsieur." She passed out, and heard the door close harshly behind her. It shut away—ah, what? The Might-have-been—the Forbidden—Eden perhaps? She could not tell. Bewildered, and exhausted, she fell on her knees in the dark by her narrow bed, and sobbed out all the wild confusion of her heart. CHAPTER XIII DISTURBING INSINUATIONS