“Only a scratch, monsieur,” Pasdeloup replied; but his master was not satisfied until he had wiped away the blood and assured himself that the wound was indeed a slight one. A bullet had grazed Pasdeloup’s forehead, cutting in the skin a clean furrow which was bleeding copiously. Pasdeloup submitted to this inspection with evident impatience. “It is nothing,” he repeated. “It is nothing. You are wasting time, monsieur.” “All right, my friend,” said his master, releasing him at last, “but I wanted to be quite sure;” and he turned to an inspection of the room. It was sadly wrecked, the furniture blown asunder, the tapestries smoking on the splintered floor; but the walls were intact, impregnable. M. le Comte smiled as he looked at them. “As well assault a lion with pebbles as this tower with hand-grenades,” he said. “We are safe as ever.” “Except in one particular, monsieur,” broke in Pasdeloup in a low voice. “They are now quite certain that we have taken refuge here. Before, perhaps, they only suspected it.” “That is true,” agreed his master thoughtfully. “Well, let us see what the next move will be;” and he blew out the candle and mounted to the platform. “Everything is safe,” he added, in answer to madame’s look, and joined her at the parapet. As for me, I boldly took the place I coveted beside the younger woman. “It reminds one of Rome burning,” I said, gazing down at the flames and the frenzied multitude. “I might almost fancy myself a second Nero--you perceive that the populace is cursing us.” “Yes,” she retorted without raising her eyes, “and no doubt, like Nero, you would fiddle in the face of those curses.” “There are moments,” I said, “when joy of heart enables one to smile at any misfortune.” “You are experiencing such a moment now? You are fortunate!” “I am, indeed. Perhaps Nero also had the woman he loved beside him.” “That would be an explanation, truly!” “But one thing I am quite certain he did not have,” I added in a lower tone, bending above her. “He did not have, warm against his heart, a flower which his love had kissed and thrown to him.” “We all of us have our foolish impulses,” she responded tartly; but I saw the glow which deepened in her cheek. “If that was a foolish impulse, mademoiselle,” I said, “I trust it will not be the last one. But it was not mere impulse--it came from your heart. One day you are going to love me.” “Well, and what then?” she questioned quietly. I confess I had no answer ready; what answer was it possible to give? “I may add, M. de Tavernay,” she continued more severely, “that I consider your jests exceedingly ill-timed. Why talk of a future which will never exist?” “But it will exist!” I protested. “Then no doubt you have already devised a way of escape from this tower. It is only necessary for us to depart whenever we are ready.” “No, mademoiselle,” I said; “I see no way of escape at present; but I trust my star.” “Your star?”