Harrington, astonished beyond measure, sat in silence, wondering what object Muriel could have in telling him this, all his being, meanwhile, one burning flush of grief and pain. “To which,” pursued Muriel, “Monsieur Bagasse replied in his French _patois_ to this effect: ‘Why is it odd that a rich and beautiful lady should love Mr. Harrington. Is it odd because he wears an old coat? Ah, Mr. Witherlee, there are duchesses that love the old coat because it covers the nobility of heart they also love! Listen,’ said Monsieur Bagasse, ‘to what I would do if I were a beautiful, rich lady, and knew that Mr. Harrington loved me. I would say—you good, gallant, noble man, so like the knightly gentlemen of the heroic time, I know that you love me, and I love you for all you are. I love you with your old coat—I love your old coat because it has covered you. Take me to your heart—take me to your life—share my home, my wealth—I am yours forever! That,’ said Monsieur Bagasse, John, ‘that is what I would say to Mr. Harrington if I were a beautiful, rich lady, and knew that he loved me.’” Her voice, in saying all this, was so even, so low and clear and sweet, so calm and unimpassioned, and she stood so motionless in her mystic beauty, with her arms serenely laid upon each other, that Harrington, sadly listening, and gazing at her seraphic face and gem-like eyes, as she bloomed before him in the tender moonlight, had no sense of the climax to which her soul was rushing, no hint of the meaning which her recital concealed. But suddenly a thrill stirred his pulses, for she stepped a pace forward, and her arms fell. “Hear me, my Paladin,” she said, and her voice rose into fuller melody, and a proud and glorious smile kindled her features—“your Frenchman’s speech was the voice of a manly heart, and the lady of whom Witherlee spoke, responds to its every word. Knowing that you love her, and hoping she is worthy of a love like yours, she has said—you, in whose frame beat the pulses of gentlemen and chevaliers—you, in whose soul the spirit of the antique chivalry lives anew—take me, for I love you, and I have loved you long. Take me to your heart—take me to your life—for I am yours forever!” He sprang to his feet, and stood in the moonlight, dilated, his eyes resplendent, and his features still and pallid as the features of the dead. Her arms were stretched toward him, and with all his being yearning to her, he could scarcely restrain the impulse that bade him whirl every consideration to the winds, and clasp her to his heart. But no: there was some mystery here to be made plain; he must be sure that some sudden passion had not made her forgetful of her plighted faith to another; he must not wrong his friend. The thought quelled the tumult of his spirit, and held his struggling heart as a giant holds a giant.