In a moment after, there were steps heard coming along towards the staircase, and a voice replied, "There is death and pestilence in the house. If you come for plunder, take it quickly; if you come by accident, fly as fast as you may, for every breath is tainted." The tones of that voice were not to be mistaken, even before Charles of Montsoreau beheld the speaker; but, ere the last words were spoken, Marie de Clairvaut herself was at the top of the staircase, bearing a small lamp in her hand, and Charles of Montsoreau eagerly sprang up the steps. The lamp flashed upon the form and features which she had not at first seen, and with a loud cry she darted forward to meet him. The next moment, however, nearly dropping the lamp, she rushed back, exclaiming, "Come not near, Charles! Dear, dear Charles, come not near! These hands, not twelve hours ago, have closed the eyes of the dead. The plague most likely is upon me now!" But before she could add more, the arms of Charles of Montsoreau were round her. "You have called me dear," he said, "and what privilege can be dearer than sharing your fate, whatever it may be? Dear, dear, dear Marie! oh, say those words again, and make me happy!" "But I fear for you, Charles," she said; "I fear for you. All are either dead or have fled and left me, and I shall see you die too,--you, you die also by the very touch, by the very breath, of one to whom you have restored life." "I fear not, Marie," answered Charles; "I fear not; and that is the safest guard. Certainly you shall not see me fly and leave you; and I fear not, either, that you will see death overtake me. But oh, if even it did, how sweet would death itself be, watched by that dear face, wept by those beloved eyes!" Marie bent down her head, and said nothing; but she strove no more against the arm that was cast round her; her hand remained in his, and the colour rose warmly into her cheek, which had before been deadly pale. "If," she said at length, after a long pause, during which he had continued to gaze earnestly, fondly, sadly upon her,--"If it were not that I feared for you, your presence would indeed be a comfort and a consolation to me: not that I fear for myself," she added; "I know not why, but I have never feared. It has seemed to me as if there were no danger to myself--as if I should certainly escape. But oh, how terrible it would be to see you struck by the pestilence also!" "Say no more, dear Marie; say no more," replied Charles of Montsoreau, feeling and knowing by every word that she was his own. "I fear not; I have no fear; and even if I had, love would trample it under foot in a moment. I would not leave you in such an hour, not if by descending that short flight of steps I could save myself from death: unless indeed you told me to go, and that you loved me not."