Marguerite shook her head. The voice in which this man spoke was deep and sweet with sympathy. That she could recognize; but his words partook of a cause from which she recoiled. They seemed to excuse the murderers of her friend. She drew her hand from his clasp, shuddering. He saw the change that came over her features, and smiled. “Marguerite, you do not trust me.” “Trust you, oh yes. Were you not my saviour? You tried to spare him too, but could not.” “But the thing I did was nothing. Any gentleman would have done as much.” “Where crowds meet only to pull down and murder, one does not expect to find a gentleman,” answered Marguerite, unconscious of the sarcasm that lay in her innocent words. The young man seemed tempted to argue the matter but checked himself, saying, “You must not give me too much credit. But tell me what are your friends doing that they permit these lonely night walks?” “They are full of other thoughts. All except two—an old woman whose husband you saw murdered, alas! tears kept her from watching me; and my father, who is more helpless than I am. Oh, Monsieur, I sometimes think it would have been kinder had you left those hideous men to kill me, and never opened his dungeon. He was used to the prison.” “Poor old man, is he too suffering? Where can I see him?” “He does not wish to be seen. They have forced liberty upon him when it was too late. He loves nothing but solitude.” “Perhaps not; but a man so wronged must hate the tyrant who persecuted him.” “That king is dead. Besides, the good old man hates no one.” “Not the king?” “Least of all, the good king.” “And you, little one—how is it with you?” “My best friend died serving the king, so would I.” The beautiful face of the girl kindled, her eyes flashed like stars as she said this. Then bethinking herself how dangerous such expressions of loyalty might prove, she said, half timidly, “They tell me it is dangerous not to abuse the king; but you ask me for the truth, and I forget to be prudent. Besides, I think you also love the king.” “How can you think that?” “Because you would not let those ruffians kill me, and tried to knock down that murderer’s gun, when you must have known that honest guard belonged to the king.” “But what if I loved France more?” “I heard some one say, when I was a little girl, that the king _was_ France.” The young man broke into a low laugh, which began bitterly and ended in good-humor. What man, he thought, could burden a creature so innocent and sweet with political prejudices. It seemed like dragging nightingales out from the sheltering roses, and hurling them into a maelstrom. “Well, Marguerite, I will not quarrel with you for loving the king; and you must permit me to worship France just a little,” he said, smiling. “But you have not told me why it is that you come to this dangerous place alone, and at night? It cannot be, certainly, the old home-feeling that brings _you_ here?”