“M. de Brousson,” she said in a low voice, in which there was a slight tremor, “I have no words in which to thank you. My gratitude is equal to the horror from which I am fleeing. Alone, mademoiselle and I could have accomplished nothing; we did not even know what to do. To you, then, monsieur, I owe a liberty which is more precious than my life.” I was deeply moved, and words rushed to my lips which I dared not utter at that time, and in her hour of peril. “Mademoiselle,” I said, as quietly as I could, “it is my happiness to have served you, and my hope to serve you yet more faithfully. I will spare nothing to deliver you from your uncle, and to obtain your entire freedom from restraint.” “It is a terrible thing, M. de Brousson,” Zénaïde said thoughtfully, “to be persecuted by one of your own family; but my uncle has never had any sympathy for me. I am merely a card in his hands, to be played when the stakes are certain; he has never considered me as a human being. He is cruel, and I dread the consequences to you of these kind offices.” “Fear nothing, mademoiselle,” I responded cheerfully. “I know also something of your uncle, and fear him not at all.” “You are brave, monsieur,” she replied with a soft little laugh. “As a rule my uncle is a terror to friends and foes. Alas! I believe no one is his friend except through fear or favor; that is the common fate of such men as he!” “That is true, mademoiselle,” I replied thoughtfully; “but it is also true that to a man of such inflexible will, the support of friendly sympathy is superfluous. I can fancy him treating it with scorn. He would rejoice in ruling by the force of his own determination, and crushing out all resistance.” “Yes,” she said quietly; “he would crush out life itself if the opposition to his will were obstinate. I believe that he has learned to hate me since he has found that I will not yield to his authority the unquestioning obedience of a child, and yet he has never tried to win me to submission by any kindness or persuasion. He is a man of iron.” I thought of her persecuted mother and her murdered father, and had no words with which to answer her. How little she measured the villainy of this stern man! she was like a child trying to read the soul of a rogue.