The young girl came at her mother’s bidding, an earnest light in her eyes, a faint glow on her face. Her father was in prison, her mother only an hour before had fainted from want of nourishment. She thought of this, and her gentle nature was aroused to profound sympathy. The mother took her hand, holding it firmly as she bent down and kissed the white forehead uplifted to her face. “We have been selfish, my child,” she said. “In our own troubles we have forgotten others. What can two helpless women accomplish against wrongs that have grown strong under centuries of endurance? My child, in ourselves we are nothing; united with others equally unfortunate we may do much. France has wronged us terribly—it is my motherland. It was I who persuaded him to come and cast himself into dangers that seized upon him, as wild beasts snatch their prey. ‘The king has sent for you,’ I said. ‘The king is France.’ I was wrong, the king is not France—his people cannot reach him; his heart is good and generous, but who can appeal to it, standing so far off. Still, France is France, and this king is not the old one; he continues abuses, but does not originate them.” Monsieur Jacques listened earnestly. He looked from madame to her daughter, in wonder. Their energy had enkindled a new idea in his ardent nature. He saw in it an element of strength that would be wielded with force when the time of redemption arrived. The power and pride of a Roman matron lay in that woman, who was lifted far above those with whom poverty forced her to associate. Her intellect was quick and grasping; she comprehended like a man, and felt like a woman—of such characters among men leaders are formed. How would it prove with her own sex? Could she control that subtle element? Would enthusiasm awake to the glance of her eyes, and ignorance follow her lead unquestioning? Monsieur looked upon her as she stood, tall, naturally robust, and proud, flinging off all selfish weakness, and ready to suffer for her country, as she had already suffered for her husband, alas! in vain. Then he turned to Marguerite, fair and delicate as a lily; and saw in her beauty another spirit of power; for this man had but one grand idea—and that was “_Liberty!_” “You think as she does?” he questioned, laying his hand upon her head solemnly, as if consecrating her. “Let her think for me, I am too young. Where she goes, I will go; where she dies, I, too, will die!” Her words were low and solemn; sweet as the rustle of living flowers, but resolute, too. The girl felt their import, though she did not as yet understand the magnitude of her concession. “Those who dedicate themselves to liberty have no sex,” said Monsieur Jacques. “Men and women suffer alike; let them resist alike.” CHAPTER VIII. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. As Monsieur Jacques was speaking, a knock sounded at the door—a fierce, loud knock, as if the person without had become impatient.