Some one drew aside the _portière_; she passed out, with a smile that fled from her face as she descended the stairs. Under the dim oil-lamp in the hall a cloaked figure was standing. As she came upon it, she saw it was the English lord. The warmth and fragrance of a remoter atmosphere that she brought with her shivered into frost on the instant. That was inevitable; yet she would always have foregone many plenary indulgences to draw this man into sin on her account. He took a quick step forward, made as if to seize her by the arm--but checked the impulse. “You must come with me!” he whispered. She exclaimed, incredulous, “Come with you!” then quickly bent forward, and looked intensely into his face. “Why does your voice break? Is it some trouble of your own, and you seek me--_me_ out of all the world?” “It is not of my own.” “Whose, then?” “Yours.” “_Mon Dieu_!” she cried, with a little sharp laugh of mockery. “I know of none--of no trouble or pleasure--that is our mutual concern.” He clapped his hand roughly at that on her naked shoulder. His fingers clawed angry marks in the flesh. “Ah!” she cried, “you hurt me!” “Hurt!” he echoed. “Do you know what they are doing to-night in this devil’s city of yours?” He caught only a faint protesting murmur from her lips. “God wither you if you do!” he said hoarsely. “They are murdering the prisoners. Do you hear?--in all the prisons they are murdering the prisoners; and Basile de St Denys is one of them!” She sprang back from him. Her face was like a face seen in moonlight--white, round a black glare of eyes. “You lie!” she cried. “He at least is dead already!” He came at her again--seized her in a very fiend’s grip. “Is it a time to equivocate? You know, as I, how your wicked hand miscarried on that day. The man is in prison. I myself saw him borne thither three days ago. You must come, and quickly, to be of use. There is no question but that.” She shook herself free, standing back so that her face seemed to twitch and palpitate in the gusty sway of the lamp-light. “You are imperious,” she muttered. “It must not be,” he cried violently, “this horrible thing. You can save him if you will.” “And can you so master your loathing of me as to ask it?” she said. “I swear--deny yourself this gratification of a lust so inhuman, and I will think better of you than ever before.” “That will be compensation for all I have suffered,” she said. Her voice seemed too toneless, too passionless even for irony. She stood without a movement before him, the marks of his clutch slowly fading from her shoulder. “Théroigne,” he cried, “you have the chance to a little atone. You will not so clinch your damnation! In the name of God, Théroigne! This man was the father of your child.” “True,” she said, “of my dead child. I will come, monsieur.” He gave a gasp of terrible relief. “Hurry!” he said, “or it will be too late.”