“Monsieur, he will not come. He fears you like the plague. He will do his work the more effectively in quiet.” Bras-de-Fer paused a moment and then came to Jacquard and put both hands upon his shoulders. “_Mon ami_,” he said, “what you ask is impossible. It is impossible. I give you my word. If I could do what you advise I should do so; for what you urge is wise. But I must try to do what I have planned to do. If I cannot do it with you, I must do it without you.” “Oh, monsieur,” interrupted Jacquard, almost at the edge of tears, “I would do for you always--speak for you, work for you, fight for you--and now, do not doubt me, monsieur!” The appeal shone forth with so true a light from his small, glittering eyes that Bras-de-Fer was truly affected by the demonstration. “I believe you, _mon ami_. Go. Tell me all that happens. I will follow your advice as I can.” CHAPTER XIV THE UNMASKING Mistress Barbara reached her cabin door, free, save for that rebellious tear which the Frenchman had seen, of any outward mark of the turbulence of her emotions. But once within, and the key turned in the lock, she buried her face in her hands, her frame racked by hard, dry sobs which filled her throat and overwhelmed her. Fearful that the sounds might reach the ears of him who had caused them, she clenched her teeth upon her kerchief, wrapped her cloak closely about her neck and face, and threw herself upon the bench in an agony of mortification. God help her! Had it all been in vain? She had sought the man, she had found him, and he had repulsed her unkindly, even cruelly, as though she had been a foolish child or a dotard--a person unworthy of consideration. Was this the one she had known in London, the gallant Chevalier Mornay, who, however bold or daring, carried forward his presumptions with a grace and courtesy which robbed them of their offensiveness? She might acknowledge this now that he was grown so different. What had come over him? Was he mad? He had repulsed her as though she sought to do him an injury; had spoken to her as she had heard him speak to the vile creatures about him, in a tone which lowered her to their own low level. He had spurned her, scorned her lightly, carelessly, coolly, as though even his scorn were too valuable an emotion to squander upon one he held in such a low estimation. Never had she been treated thus by man or woman, and her gorge rose at the thought of it. The sobbing ceased, and in place of her distress came an unreasoning, quiet fury--fury at herself, at him, at the world which had brought her to such a pass. She rose and, angrily brushing the wet, straggling hair from her eyes, threw wide the stern casement to look out on the gray turmoil of waters which vanished into the unseen. Was this the man for whom she had left London and sacrificed everything? Was this fool who threw her favors aside like a tarnished ribbon, was this the man who had followed her about from place to place in London,