“What happened after I had left you that time?” She seemed to wake to his voice, shuddering out of some scaring dream. “My God! they sought for me; they burned my lodge; they killed my poor _génisse_. They would have crucified me like the thieves; but I hid, and escaped in the night.” She paused. “Go on,” he said. “I fled into the woods. There, when I was lost and near starving, I fell, by God’s blessing, upon the Cagots who had once before visited our parts. They were returned, making their way towards Paris because of the cry of equality. They had lost their child; it had been hunted by boys, and had died of the ill-treatment. They were alone, those two, and they took me in and fed me; and by-and-by, when it was safe for me to move, I went with them on their journey to the great city.” “Great God!” cried Ned, striking in in sheer amazement. “And these were they upon whom you allowed suspicion of the murder to rest, whom the merest chance saved from suffering the consequences of a crime of which you alone were guilty!” “But, monsieur--oh, monsieur, I knew, when the cry rose, that they were gone from the neighbourhood. And, indeed, they are always so execrated that it could make no difference.” Ned sank back in his chair. “Well?” he said, with a veritable groan. “I went with them; and we were long, long by the way; and on the way the woman also died. I think it was of nothing less than starvation. Then the man and I came on alone to Paris, and Théroigne met us, and took me from him.” “And the woman died of want, and it never occurred to you that you were a burden on those whom you had--oh, God, how to unravel this warp! Hold your tongue, Nicette! Let there be silence between us, in pity’s name!” She shrunk down as if she had been struck. Her confidences, it seemed, were of no avail to move him. But presently he spoke again-- “Why, last night--when I accused you before the woman, your friend--did you not give me the lie? She would have taken your word before mine.” And she answered, in the very voice of desolation-- “Because, if I had lied, I should have lost you.” He leapt to his feet. “I cannot breathe or think!” he cried. “I must leave you--I must go out!” As he hurried from the room, she dragged herself to his empty chair, and threw her arms about it with a moan of agony. * * * * * * * * All day he wandered through the streets, and only returned home when darkness had closed many hours upon the city. “She will be in bed by now,” he thought. The firelight made a glow about the room, revealing it untenanted. He sat himself down before the hearth, feeling utterly weary and vanquished. He had done nothing, planned nothing as to the girl’s removal. His brain seemed incapable of concentrated thought. “I should have lost you--should have lost you.” The cry had been drawn into his very veins. It adapted itself to his pulses--to the knocking of his heart. What was to be the answer?