Uncle and niece looked at each other as he passed out, and there was horror in the eyes of both. Aline’s pallor was deathly almost, and standing there now she wrung her hands as if in pain. “Why did you not ask him--beg him...” She broke off. “To what end? He was in the right, and... and there are things one cannot ask; things it would be a useless humiliation to ask.” He sat down, groaning. “Oh, the poor boy--the poor, misguided boy.” In the mind of neither, you see, was there any doubt of what must be the issue. The calm confidence in which La Tour d’Azyr had spoken compelled itself to be shared. He was no vainglorious boaster, and they knew of what a force as a swordsman he was generally accounted. “What does humiliation matter? A life is at issue--Andre’s life.” “I know. My God, don’t I know? And I would humiliate myself if by humiliating myself I could hope to prevail. But Azyr is a hard, relentless man, and...” Abruptly she left him. She overtook the Marquis as he was in the act of stepping his carriage. He turned as she called, and bowed. “Mademoiselle?” At once he guessed her errand, tasted in anticipation the unparalleled bitterness of being compelled to refuse her. Yet at her invitation he stepped back into the cool of the hall. In the middle of the floor of chequered marbles, black and white, stood a carved table of black oak. By this he halted, leaning lightly against it whilst she sat enthroned in the great crimson chair beside it. “Monsieur, I cannot allow you so to depart,” she said. “You cannot realize, monsieur, what a blow would be dealt my uncle if... if evil, irrevocable evil were to overtake his godson to-morrow. The expressions that he used at first...” “Mademoiselle, I perceived their true value. Spare yourself. Believe me I am profoundly desolated by circumstances which I had not expected to find. You must believe me when I say that. It is all that I can say.” “Must it really be all? Andre is very dear to his godfather.” The pleading tone cut him like a knife; and then suddenly it aroused another emotion--an emotion which he realized to be utterly unworthy, an emotion which, in his overwhelming pride of race, seemed almost sullying, yet not to be repressed. He hesitated to give it utterance; hesitated even remotely to suggest so horrible a thing as that in a man of such lowly origin he might conceivably discover a rival. Yet that sudden pang of jealousy was stronger than his monstrous pride. “And to you, mademoiselle? What is this Andre-Louis Moreau to you? You will pardon the question. But I desire clearly to understand.” Watching her he beheld the scarlet stain that overspread her face. He read in it at first confusion, until the gleam of her blue eyes announced its source to lie in anger. That comforted him; since he had affronted her, he was reassured. It did not occur to him that the anger might have another source.