“You!” she cried, immoderately. “You again! Has a lady no rights which a man, whatever he be, is bound to respect? Why do you pursue me? Listen to me, Monsieur Mornay. I hate you!--I hate you!--I hate you!” And then, overcome by the every excess of her emotion, she sank to the bench beside her. Monsieur Mornay stood at a distance and occupied himself with the laces at his sleeves. To a Frenchman this was surely an ill-requiting of his delicate attentions. “Madame,” he began, calmly, then paused. “No, madame does not mean that.” He made no attempt to go nearer, but stood, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, his eyes, dark and serious, looking quietly down at her. She made no reply, but sat rigidly, her arm upon the back of the bench, the seat of which her skirts had completely covered. There was no indication of the turmoil that raged within her but the tapping of her silken shoe upon the graveled walk. “How have I offended, madame?” he continued. “Is it a fault to admire? Is my tribute a sin? Is my service a crime? Have I not the right of any other of your poor prisoners--to do you honor from afar?” “From afar?” she asked, coldly satirical. Mornay shrugged his shoulders with a pretty gesture. “_Ma foi_, madame. My mind cannot imagine a greater distance between us--” “Monsieur’s imagination is not without limits,” she interrupted; and then, after a pause, “In England a lady is allowed the privilege of choosing her own following.” “In France,” he replied, with an inclination of the head--“in France the following confers an honor by choosing the lady.” “Yes, _in France_, monsieur.” There was a hidden meaning to her words. He thought a moment before replying. “But madame is of a house of France. The English Mistress Clerke is also the French Vicomtesse de Bresac.” She turned fully towards him and met his gaze steadily. “But, thank God! the part of me that is English is the part of me which scorns such attentions as yours. To be the object of such gallantries is to be placed in a class”--she paused to measure out the depth of her scorn--“in a class with your Shrewsburys and Middletons. It is an insult to breathe the air with you alone. My cavaliers are gentlemen, monsieur, and in England--” She broke off abruptly, as if conveying too full an honor by conversing with him; and then, woman-like, “Why did you save the Spanish coach?” she cried, passionately. Monsieur Mornay smiled blithely. “Madame would not look half so handsome dead as she does alive.” He took a step as though to go nearer, and she rose to her feet, turning towards the house. “Come nearer, monsieur, and I--I leave at once.” Mornay’s brows contracted dangerously as he said: “The hour is mine”; and then, with an angry irony, “You need not fear me, madame. I am no viper or toad that you should loathe me so.” She looked defiantly up at him.