"Listen!" And she spoke in low but quick accents. "Were I to avail myself of this chance I know I should be safe, for the bravest heart in France would be protecting me. But, monsieur, I should be saving myself and leaving the others--my people, those of my own faith--to die. I am a woman, and a woman may be forgiven weakness in this--for death, and such a death, is horrible--but could I forgive myself? I who knew, and fled, and left my people to die! Do you know who all are in Paris? There are scores of them. There is kind old De Mouy, there is Rochambeau, there is D'Albain, there are fifty more. Are they to die? Besides these there are the poorer brethren, rich in nothing but their faith. Are they to die? Can I leave them, without a word of warning, to the torture, to the rack, to the slow death of the estrapade?" She stopped, her eyes all alight, her breath coming fast; but I made no answer, and stood before her in silence. "You have nothing to say," she went on--"nothing! Orrain, were you in my place what would you do?" "I am a man." "And is honour less dear to a woman than to a man?" I knew she was brave, but never before had I realised how brave and strong; and, yielding to an impulse I could not resist, I bent down and touched her hand with my lips. "Mademoiselle," I said, "you have taught me what is right. You cannot go thus. Your friends must be warned." "I knew you would say that," she burst in; "I knew that nothing else would come from you. Yes; they must be warned! A word here and there would be enough if there were time; but there is not, and there is only one way left." "And that is?" "I will tell you. Close to the Sorbonne, in a little street called the Rue des Mathurins, which leads into the Rue St. Jacques, is a house where my people meet to pray, and to-night all, if not, most of them, will be there. This much I know. But where the house is exactly I do not know, for I have never been to it. If we could get there we would be in time to warn them." "From whom did you hear this? It is necessary for me to know." "From Montgomery de Lorges." "The captain of the Archer Guard?" "Yes; he is of us, and always has been." "Then, mademoiselle, there is light in the black sky. I will warn your friends; more we cannot do. And, since there are so many, I feel confident that the plotters will not strike for a day or so. Our warning will give those who can time to escape, and you and I will have done all that can be done. In the meantime our original plan must be carried out; but it is to a friend that I must trust you for a few hours until I have given the warning and can join you----" She stayed me with a gesture of her hands. "Monsieur, why should I not go with you?" For a moment I hesitated, and then it flashed upon me that it was the best possible thing. After giving the warning there was nothing to prevent our escaping at once.