She drew back suddenly, as if his strange and earnest query had hit her in the face. He did not withdraw his gaze from her, however--a curious, searching, intense gaze--which sent the blood coursing hotly through her veins in unbounded pride and anger. Indeed, for the moment she forget her role, forgot her foolish boast, her childish wager that she would bring this untamed ogre to his knees. For the first time now she felt appalled at the magnitude of a passion which she had wantonly kindled, and with the marvellous prodigality of youth--she would at this moment have bartered twenty years of her life to undo the mischief which she had already done. She felt like a sleep-walker who--suddenly awakened--sees a yawning abyss at his feet, and with a strange instinct of self-protection she put up her hands as if to ward off a threatened blow. The gesture, and a vague look of fear in her eyes, sobered him quickly enough, and after a while he reiterated quite gently: "Would you care, Mademoiselle Fernande?" Fernande de Courson, young as she was, had a great fund of self-control and self-confidence, and already she had recovered from that sense of fear which had paralysed her for a moment and of which she was already heartily ashamed. "Of course I would care, _mon cousin_," she replied coolly and with a forced little laugh. "Did you not care when our kinsfolk were murdered on the guillotine by a lot of insensate brutes? You are my kinsman, too! Surely you do not credit me with less sensibility than you or M. Gaston de Maurel possess?" She had hit back boldly this time, and he was not quite so unsophisticated as not to know that she was punishing him for all the bitter words which he had spoken so freely--even in the woods, when her beauty and her helplessness ought to have put a curb upon his tongue. A hot flush rose to his brow, and a look of remorse, which seemed intensely pathetic and appealing, crept into his eyes. But Fernande, after her fright of a while ago, was in no mood for gentleness, and she responded to his mute prayer for forgiveness by a light, ironical laugh and a careless shrug of the shoulders. Before she had time to speak again, however, good old Mathurin had intervened in a blundering fashion, which had the effect of adding more fuel to the smouldering flames of Fernande's wrath. "Ah, Mademoiselle," he said, his voice quivering with emotion, "I would to God you could persuade the General not to expose himself alone in the midst of those hellhounds in there. As you say, one of them will be sticking a knife into him one day ... and...." "Mathurin!" came in stern reproof from de Maurel. But Mathurin had ventured too far now to draw back. He gave a shrug of his broad shoulders, as if to show that he was prepared to take all the consequences of his boldness. Worthy old Mathurin--who was wholly unversed in the ways of women--had an idea that in Fernande he had found an ally who would second him in his anxiety for his master.