The old man reached out both his trembling hands, and the mouse crept into them, shaking like a leaf. “My poor friend! my dear little one! Will they never let us alone? Hush! hush!” The steps which had dislodged the stone were coming downward with quick, sharp leaps. Marguerite’s cry had evidently made itself heard, and startled the wanderer, whoever he was. The old man gathered himself up, and retreated into the darkest corner of his cell. Marguerite saw his terror. Placing one foot on the fragment of rock, she leaped over it, and began to climb upward with such swift excitement, that she absolutely seemed floating to the man, who paused half-way down, and watched her with astonishment. CHAPTER LXXIV. LOVE. “Did the rock strike? Is any one hurt?” called out a man’s voice, which shook with terror. “No one is hurt, monsieur; but I was frightened, and called out like a coward,” answered Marguerite, coming swiftly up to his level. “But you were in danger?” “Yes; the wind which the rock brought with it, took away my breath; that was all.” They stood together now on the same platform, and the moonbeams fell upon them with all its spiritualizing brightness. A face more sweetly grand was never bowed over one more beautiful. “Marguerite! in this dreary place. In Heaven’s name, what brings you here?” “My heart, Monsieur St. Just. Nothing else could. Some one that I love was lost, and I came in search of him.” “But are you not afraid?” “No. It is over yonder that I am afraid. Stones do not hurt one; men and women do. Besides, it is here that I should be grateful—not afraid!” “Grateful! why?” “Up yonder, I can see the spot where a crowd of men, with red caps on their heads, and weapons in their hands, seized upon a poor girl, and—and——” “I remember. Great Heavens! it was a terrible danger!” “It was a terrible murder, when that poor man was shot down only for being faithful to his king.” “What, the man on guard at the tower?” “He fell at my feet. Oh, monsieur! I know that you would have saved him. It was your hand that struck up one carbine; but even then another more fatal did the cruel work. God forgive them! God forgive them! he is all merciful; but, oh! I never can!” “My sweet Marguerite,” said the young man, reaching forth his hand as if she had been an infant whom he was ready to lead out of peril, “do not be unforgiving. True, it was a horrible moment!” “It made a widow of my best friend,” answered Marguerite, with pathetic simplicity. “That is hard,” said the man, “but the time must soon come when France will be the mother of widows made in her behalf.”