"Afraid of you?" He tried to speak gaily. "Pray," she said in a queer, stiff tone, "do not repeat all my words. I asked if you were afraid of me, Monsieur Roger?" "No," he faltered, "but--but I thought that you would rather be alone." "I?" in a tone that went to poor Roger's heart. "I, who have told you that I am always alone? Who have told you that I have not"--her voice shook--"a friend--one real friend in the world!" "You are tired now," Roger faltered, finding no other words than those he had used before. "Not one real friend!" she repeated piteously. "Not one!" He was not proof against that. He bent towards her in the darkness--almost in spite of himself. "Yes, one," he said, in a voice as unsteady as hers. "One you have, mademoiselle, who would die for you and ask not a look in return! Who would set, and will ever set, your honour and your happiness above the prizes of the world! Who asks only to serve you at a distance, by day and dark, now and always! If it be a comfort for you to know that you have a friend, know it! Know----" "I do not know," she struck in, in a voice both incredulous and ironical, "where I am to find such an one save in books! In the Seven Champions or in Amadis of Gaul--perhaps. But in the world--where?" He was silent. He had said too much already. Too much, too much! "Where?" she repeated. Still he did not answer. Then, "Do you mean yourself, Monsieur Roger?" She spoke with a certain keenness of tone that was near to, ay, that threatened offence. He stood, his hands hanging by his side. "Yes," he faltered. "But no one knows better than myself that I cannot help you, mademoiselle. That I can be no honour to you. For the Countess of Rochechouart to have a crook-backed knight at the tail of her train--it may make some laugh. It may make women laugh. Yet----" he paused on the word. "Yet what, sir?" "While he rides there," poor Roger whispered, "no man shall laugh." She was silent quite a long time, as if she had not heard him. Then, "Do you not know," she said, "that the Countess of Rochechouart can have but one friend--her husband?" He winced. She was right; but if that was her feeling, why had she complained of the lack of friends? "Only one friend, her husband," the Countess continued softly. "If you would be that friend--but perhaps you would not, Roger? Still, if you would, I say, you must be kind to her ever and gentle to her. You must not leave her alone in woods on dark nights. You must not slight her. You must not,"--she was half laughing, half crying, and hanging towards him in the darkness, her childish hands held out in a gesture of appeal, irresistible had he seen it--but it was dark, or she had not dared--"you must not make anything too hard for her!" He stepped one pace from her, shaking. "I dare not! I dare not!" he said.