“I will seek death,” I answered; and I know that I spoke sincerely. “And it may be that my death will be of some service to France.” She sat a moment looking up at me, a strange light in her eyes. “I do not like to advise,” she began at last, and I fancied that her lips were trembling. “It is so serious a matter.” “I beg you to,” I urged. “It is the greatest favor you can do me.” “A man is the best judge of his own duty.” “He should be,” I admitted; “but in this case I fear that I cannot see clearly.” “But neither may I,” she objected. “Ah, I am sure you will; in fact, mademoiselle, I suspect that you see so clearly that you fear to wound me. But to refuse to help me would be to wound me far more deeply.” “Well, then,” she said, a little hoarsely, “since you will have it so, I must tell you that to my mind your betrothed has the first claim upon you. Not until you have fulfilled your engagement with her,--the engagement for which your father has your word,--is your life your own to cherish or throw away; not even then, for surely she will have some claim upon it.” “Not so great a claim as my country,” I protested. “Perhaps not,” she assented; “but at present her claim is greater than your country’s. To desert her would be to dishonor her; a betrothal is a sacred thing, almost as sacred as marriage itself. To break it, to cast it aside, to disregard it even for a time, would be cowardly and ignoble. You must go on to Poitiers. That way lies the path of honor.” She spoke with a simple, fearless, deep sincerity which moved me strangely. Ah, here was a woman! Here was a woman! “You are right, mademoiselle,” I said, and bent and kissed her hand. “A thousand times right. I thank you.” Then with such agony at my heart that I knew not whither I went, I turned and left her. CHAPTER VI. EVE IN THE GARDEN. BUT that clear voice recalled me ere I had taken a dozen steps. “What is it? Whither do you go?” she asked. “Not forward to Poitiers at this hour!” “Oh, no!” I answered. “I was merely going to--to think--to fight it out. But I was rude. Pardon me. I--I did not realize what I was doing.” “You are pardoned,” she said; and her voice was siren-sweet. “Perhaps I can help you to fight it out, my friend--at least I should like to help you. Besides I have not yet done talking to you. I have some further advice at your disposal, if you care for it.” “I _do_ care for it,” I said; and turned instantly back to her. “You are very kind.” “I wish to be kind,” she murmured; and looked up at me with a smile that set my head to whirling. “But before I proceed,” she added, “you must sit here beside me. I can’t talk to you when you are prowling up and down like that. I feel as though I were _tête-à-tête_ with a wild animal, and it disconcerts me.”